


the time of my life (i owe it all to you)

by inkblotsandteapots



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing, Dirty Dancing AU, F/M, No Twincest, a dance subplot makes everything better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-04-06 20:04:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19069705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkblotsandteapots/pseuds/inkblotsandteapots
Summary: A Dirty Dancing inspired AU in which college student, Brienne Tarth, is dragged along on a vacation to the Catskills with her father and her Stark step-family. Though eager to reconnect with her father and forget about some of the trials of last semester, Brienne is less than enthused about spending her summer stumbling through a merengue or playing charades with retirees. That is until a chance encounter leads to Brienne somehow volunteering to take professional dancer Cersei Lannister’s place. Jaime Lannister is a demanding teacher and even more of a demanding person, but the more he pushes her, the more Brienne is determined to succeed.After all, nobody puts Brienne in the corner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is actually the first fic I've posted so any feedback is appreciated.
> 
> This is a Dirty Dancing AU that is set to follow the broad plot threads of the film with some tweaks here and there to fit the characters better. I did a quick search and it turns out somebody has done a Dirty Dancing AU for this pairing before - of course, I have no intention of ripping off any of their ideas. I'm just taking a story near and dear to my heart and applying it to characters that I also hold a lot of love for.
> 
> The overall rating for this fic is mature because there will be themes of abortion, emotional abuse and sex later in the fic but I'll keep updating it if I see any need for this to change.
> 
> These characters belong to George R.R. Martin and this plot belongs to the 80s masterpiece that is Dirty Dancing.

**Summer 1963**

It wasn’t that Brienne was  _trying_ to start her summer on a negative note, but crammed into the back of her father’s ageing blue Pontiac between Sansa and Arya – honestly, _whose_ idea had it been to put her in the seat with the least leg room when she towered over them all? – as the two girls bickered was hardly filling her with joy at the prospect of joining this particular Stark family tradition of holidaying in the Catskills.

“Cat said the scenery is magnificent,” her father, Selwyn, had told her, using the wheedling sort of voice Brienne usually reserved for when her cat, Pod, wouldn’t come inside at night. “Mountains, forests. We could go hiking! You used to love hiking. Perhaps they’ll even offer sports classes like those fencing sessions you did when we went to Dorne.”

But Brienne had poured over the brochures that Sansa had none-too-subtly forgotten outside of her bedroom and Lannister’s seemed more like an all-inclusive resort than the adventure getaway her father had promised. The even rows of cabins were too pristine, the wood too polished, to truly get away with the rustic look it was trying to project. Brienne had taken one look at the shiny frozen smiles of women with too-big hair and men with too-white trousers and knew it to be a place of retirees, small talk and an underwhelming breakfast buffet.

Still, she’d smiled and nodded. There had been a lot of smiling and nodding since her father had married Catelyn. Catelyn Stark – Tarth, she’s a Tarth now – was nice enough. Perhaps nice wasn’t the right word, but she had a no-nonsense solidity about her that Brienne admired. But this tradition was hers, just as it had been Ned’s, just as it was still Sansa and Arya’s. Brienne felt like a trespasser, a guest to her own family vacation. Still, if she were going to be a guest, then she was going to be a polite and decent one for her father’s sake. So, smiling and nodding it was.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Sansa hissed, trying and failing to look over Brienne’s head, so leaning around her instead. “I needed those peach espadrilles.”

Arya rolled her eyes. She was three years younger than Sansa, as the elder girl had constantly brought up in an attempt to exclude her from her recent eighteenth nameday festivities, but she managed to pack so much disdain and world-weariness into the expression that Brienne almost laughed. “You already had two cases in there,” she said. “I had no room for my stuff.”

“You didn’t have to chuck my shoes out of the window of a moving car!”

“Well, I couldn’t chuck them out of the sunroof,” said Arya reasonably. “Brienne’s head was in the way.”

“ _Arya_ —”

Brienne leant forward as far as the seatbelt would allow and wrapped her arms around her father’s shoulders to give the two girls space to argue behind her, feeling his chuckle reverberate through the seat. If nothing else, this vacation would give her time with him. After spending the past year away at college with only a ten-minute weekly phone call home to remind her of his voice and to check that he had been following her food-prep instructions instead of ordering Pentoshi every night, she’d missed the simple ease of her father’s company. Coming back home had felt strange at first, like shrugging into an old sweater you hadn’t worn in a while. It had taken a while to remember how to don the guise of daughter and stepsister until she was a working part of the household again.

“Girls.” Catelyn’s voice silenced the quibbling of her daughters and Brienne’s train of thought. “If you don’t stop, I’ll send your brothers to come and collect you. Selwyn, Brienne and I will enjoy this vacation alone.”

“Mom, no, I’ve told all my friends—”

“Robb and Jon’ll be working all the time and I don’t want to spend all my time with Bran and Rickon—"

“Then sit down and be civil,” said Catelyn crisply. “Or I’ll call Jon and tell him to come and collect you at nightfall.”

“You couldn’t.” Arya snickered. “He failed his driving test three times. He knows nothing.”

Brienne was saved from hearing whatever answer a steely-eyed Catelyn would deliver by the sudden squeal that erupted from Sansa at the sight of an obnoxiously large red sign on their right. _LANNISTER’S_ , it proclaimed. _Established 1957_. A small lion sat atop the ‘7’, its ruby eyes glinting at Brienne as the car trundled past, all arguments abruptly forgotten.

“I preferred the dragon,” said Arya, pointing at the tiny figurine. “When this place used to be called Targaryen’s, there were dragons everywhere, with purple eyes. It was so cool.”

“It’s show-time, little star,” her father said, tapping her hand. She relinquished him and folded back into her seat.

Late July was clearly peak season for Lannister’s. As her father’s car pulled up on the gravel driveway, Brienne saw at least a dozen employees milling around in red t-shirts emblazoned with the logo, sweating profusely as they lugged case after case from cars to the prim rows of wooden cabins that were tucked into the mountainside. A blonde man wearing a fluorescent yellow jacket and clutching a megaphone like a king’s sceptre weaved throughout the cars, looking for someone to pay attention to him.

“Goood morning, folks!” he called. His voice was chipper and nasal. It was the sort of voice that Brienne could see wearing an ostentatiously expensive suit whilst it stood at the front of the boardroom of some advertising company, deciding whether scantily clad women or cars would sell an overpriced brand of beer better. “Once your bags have been dropped off, come on down to the activities tent to try your hand at life drawing!”

“Do you think he’ll be modelling?” Sansa whispered to Brienne, her eyes fixed on the blonde. She clearly did not share Brienne’s opinion on the advertising voice.

“Or go ahead and find Pia on the front lawn at two thirty to play a game of charades!” When it was clear that people were far more concerned with unloading all of their luggage, the man’s expression soured slightly. “And dancing in the Great Hall at eight thirty,” he mumbled, dropping the megaphone in defeat.

Life-drawing, charades and dancing. Brienne tried to think of a list of activities that she would hate more. Even needles-in-eyeballs-sticking, bear-fighting and public speaking sounded like a better trio. Her misery was interrupted as everyone began to pile out onto the driveway at the signal of a tall, grey man who had caught sight of Selwyn. Brienne was the last one to clamber out of the car awkwardly, wincing as her legs finally got to straighten after three hours. By the time she was stood dutifully besides Sansa and Arya, the two men had already shaken hands and Selwyn was in the midst of introductions.

“…Arya and Sansa, my stepdaughters,” he said, indicating them. His eyes shifted to Brienne. They were her eyes, if a little more weathered around the corners. “And this one here is my daughter, Brienne. Brienne, this is Tywin Lannister.”

The name was familiar to her. Tywin Lannister was the man who had upgraded their whole holiday package so that they were staying in the top-grade chalet instead of the usual tent spot that the Starks had rented for years. Brienne smiled her best smile at him. Before her first date, her college roommate, Margery, had once said that Brienne looked prettiest when she didn’t show off her overbite, so Brienne had practiced pressing her lips firmly together as she smiled in front of the mirror, training herself to stifle any toothy amusement. She wondered if someone had given Tywin similar advice. The small, close-lipped smile he gave her didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were pale grey and as cold as coins.

“Charmed,” he said. Brienne could feel the sweat beading on her palms, so settled for an awkward bob of the head in response. Tywin took a step back to address the whole family. “Dr Tarth saved my life after a heart-attack last winter. Were it not for his impeccable work, I would not be here today. You will be my guests of honour in your month here.”

“That’s very generous of you, Mr Lannister,” Catelyn said smoothly.

“A Lannister always pays his debts, Mrs Tarth.” His gaze slid to some point low behind her and, if possible, turned harder, his upper lip curling in a crude parody of his earlier smirk. The displeased expression disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced once again by business-like professionalism. Brienne blinked, wondering if she’d imagined it. “Tyrion will help you with your bags.”

Brienne glanced behind her and saw that this ‘Tyrion’ in question was the short man deftly flicking open the boot of the car. He caught her eye as she looked down at him and shot her a wry grin, craning his neck up theatrically to look her in the face. Brienne stamped down any offence she felt – she was just as bad, looking down at him like that – but felt her face flush and her ears burn. Tyrion chuckled.

“Let – let me help you,” said Brienne, reaching for the heaviest of the bags, one of Sansa’s. The girl had learnt from Arya’s last prank and had padlocked her case shut – twice.

“I can do it, you know,” said Tyrion. There was no malice in his voice, just factual nonchalance, as though he was used to having to prove his capability to others. Brienne’s chest felt tight with sudden sympathy. When she’d signed up to a class on medieval warfare in the fall, she’d been the only woman in the lecture theatre. The department had sent around a notice discouraging the female student body from enrolling due to the practical exam in which they’d wield real blunted swords, using historically accurate techniques learnt in class. Brienne’s had felt her face burning, her knee-jerk reaction at fury as well as embarrassment, apparently, and at Margery and Yara’s urging, she’d signed her name at the bottom of the registration sheet with a steady hand. At the start of the semester, nobody had wanted to fight her because she was a woman. At the end of the semester, nobody had wanted to fight her because they knew she’d knock them into the dust.

_“Brienne the Beauty! Look how hard she tried for you, Hyle. Gods, she truly is pathetic…”_

_“Fucking beast.”_

_“Not so brave without a sword in your hand, Beauty?”_

She’d done more than knock them into the dust, in the end, and it still hadn’t felt quite like justice.

“I know,” she assured him hastily. “I wasn’t – it’s just my family have already gone to find the cabin and this is a lot for one person to carry. And you seemed so busy. I just wanted to help.”

He looked at her again, this time without the dramatic arching of the neck. After a moment, his face relaxed into a smile – an enthused, toothy one, at that. Brienne clenched her jaw against doing the same.

“Day one and we’ve already made such an impression you want a job here,” said Tyrion. “That’s got to be a record. Come on, then…?” He looked at her expectantly and she took a second too long to answer.

“Brienne. Tarth. My name is Brienne Tarth.”

“Tyrion Lannister. I’d shake your hand but…” He lifted his arms to show the several boxes of shoes dangling from them.

“Lannister?” she blurted. “Like—”

“Like our brave leader” Tyrion finished. “Yes.” His mouth twisted with the same displeasure that Tywin’s had, granting Brienne the first glimpse of something of a family resemblance. “Come on, Miss Tarth. Maybe I’ll even split my tips with you.”

Brienne seized the final bag, her own, and followed Tyrion up the cobbled path, clearly designed to curve and swoop around the park like something out of a fairy-tale, out of Oz. Mostly it just made it hard to walk without twisting her ankle.

_One month_ , Brienne thought to herself, sweating as she adjusted her grip on her bag. _Just one month_. A chirpy-looking girl sprang out onto the lawn with an announcement of charades. A group full of heavily sunscreen-ed holiday goers cheered and followed her as she began reeling her hands in a spirited impression of a film camera.

“Book!” someone shouted.

_Gods, it can’t be over soon enough._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brienne watches the mambo and the merengue, all within the lascivious clasp of a certain fire-kissed wildling.

Brienne tugged at the hem of her dress, pulling it as close to her knees as she could. She’d only worn trousers since starting college - they were the only things made long enough for her - so the garish pink frock Catelyn had produced from the depths of her suitcase was some old, motheaten thing Brienne hadn’t touched since high school. Too short in the thigh and with straps that were cutting into her shoulders, she felt like Catelyn had strung her up like a ham.

At least it provided her with an excuse not to dance. Whenever Margery tried to drag Brienne to whatever dance was happening on a Saturday, she’d never fallen for her classic repertoire of excuses: _I have to study, I’ve got my period, I’m training tomorrow_. Margery insisted that Brienne would like dancing, that she could be good at it, even, if only she tried.

“Look at it as a sport, Brie.” That was her latest angle. She’d sat on the edge of Brienne’s bed and used a pocket mirror to apply lip-gloss with a practiced hand. Brienne was wedged firmly under the covers, already in her pyjamas and with a textbook in hand (excuse #14 – _I have a pop quiz on Tuesday_ ). “You’re an athlete. I’m sure you’d get the hang of it.”

Brienne merely flipped the textbook open to a chapter on the Battle of Bosworth in response. A tiny part of her felt guilty for refusing her roommates again, but the nausea that rose in her throat when she thought of standing in the middle of a throng of people, attempting to move her arms, legs and hips in a somewhat regular rhythm, squashed that feeling into the ground. Brienne was an athlete, but she wasn’t a performer. When she fenced or played for the women’s football team, she didn’t have to be. She could pull her helmet down and use it like a horse’s blinkers, blocking out the crowds until it was just her and the thump of her heart and the stretch of her muscles. Nothing else existed. There was something so exposed about dancing, about proclaiming your body’s existence with every turn and lunge. It made her want to burrow inside some small corner of her brain and hibernate.

“He doesn’t seem like the dancing sort.” Arya nudged Brienne and nodded her head in the direction of Tywin Lannister as he advanced towards their corner table, flanked by the blonde from the car park on one side and a tall ginger man with a mane-like beard on the other.

“Tywin!” Selwyn stood and shook his hand with gusto. “Come to join us for a drink?”

Tywin Lannister smiled thinly. “I don’t partake, I’m afraid. Slurred senses and a heavy mind are a hefty price to pay for ten minutes of pleasure.” He gestured to his company. “I actually came to introduce you to these two young gentlemen. Tormund Giantsbane is the activities coordinator. I’m sure he’d be delighted to talk to you about the sports you enquired about.”

“Delighted,” Tormund echoed, eyes on Brienne. He grinned at her, a flash of teeth amidst his straggly beard. She grimaced weakly in response. “And this,” he clapped the blonde on the shoulder, “is Joffrey Baratheon. He and his cousin, Robert, are some of Yale’s finest. We’re lucky to have them with us this summer. Joffrey’s majoring in law.”

“So is Brienne,” said Selwyn, his voice warm with pride. “Majoring in law, minoring in history. My little star is going to change the world, Tywin.”

A hint of a smirk played around the corner of Joffrey’s lips, so subtle Brienne would have missed it if she hadn’t been seeing the exact same expression of barely concealed derision for years. So he was one of _those_. His eyes slid to Sansa, and the smile widened.

“And what do you intend to do, Miss?” He asked. “I recognise your face – perhaps you’ve modelled before?”

“She’s majoring in fashion design,” Arya said before Sansa could. Her eyes narrowed as she leant towards the blonde. “Do you know just how sharp fabric scissors are? They could hurt a man.”

Brienne smiled into her lemonade. Joffrey’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but his eyes didn’t waver from Sansa.

“Beautiful women have that power,” he agreed, and Sansa flushed a delicate pink.

“Ugh.” Arya gagged, earning her a warning glare from Catelyn. Brienne shared the younger girl’s sentiment. Something about the way Joffrey was looking at Sansa was making her bristle. It was an appraising gaze, the look of a man calculating the precise value of a diamond, of an elephant hunter contemplating the kill. Like her worth was something he had a right to determine.

“Would you like to dance, my lady?” Joffrey offered, extending his hand. Sansa nodded eagerly and rose to her feet, her own hand snaking out to latch onto Brienne’s wrist.

“Brie, you come dance, too,” she said. Smart girl. Probably thought Joffrey could get away with more if Brienne was accompanying her instead of Selwyn or Catelyn. _Just let him try anything_ , Brienne thought grimly. She’d wipe that smug smile off his face in an instant.

“The mambo!” Tormund thrust his hand toward Brienne, his voice booming with excitement. “You must dance.” It was not a question.

“Oh, well, I – um —”

“Go and dance, Brienne!” Selwyn said, nudging her to her feet. “Have fun with Mr…?”

“Giantsbane.” Tormund turned towards her so that her father wouldn’t see the suggestive raise of his eyebrows as he paused on the ‘giant’. _Gods_. Everyone was watching her now, Selwyn practically beaming at the sight of his daughter with a suitor, Arya with her mouth twisted with wry pity. Buckling under the attention, Brienne stood, ignoring the hand Tormund offered her and shuffling past him to the dance floor herself.

“One dance,” she muttered under her breath. His face split into a gleeful grin.

**

Brienne hadn’t danced with a man since Hyle Hunt at the Christmas party, and whilst the experience was hardly one she looked back on fondly, at least Hunt’s sullen face didn’t have a beard so long that it scratched her chest as they danced like Tormund’s did. She was fairly sure she wouldn’t be having this problem if he held her at a more respectful distance like most of the couples around them, and this knowledge meant that she wasn’t focusing as intently on avoiding his toes with her out-of-time feet as she probably would’ve done otherwise.

“Where did you say you go to college?” he asked. 

“Um, King’s Landing College.” Brienne pulled back from his grip a little, scanning the throngs of people to check on where Sansa had disappeared to with Joffrey. This would be so much easier if they’d stuck to the edges of the room like Brienne had wanted. Any hopes she’d had for a bearable experience had crashed and burned when Tormund had tugged her straight into the centre of the dancefloor.

“You part of any sports teams there?” His eyes raked over her appreciatively, an impressive feat with how closely he’d pressed her to him. “You’re a big woman. Strong. You’re built for the game.”

Was that a compliment or an insult? She wasn't going to waste her breath or her time deciding. “I – a bit.” Perhaps if she kept him talking, he’d monologue for long enough that she could search for Sansa in peace. “Did you?”

“Football and wrestling,” said Tormund proudly. “Though I do a bit of everything here. Archery, baseball. Could use someone like you to help out in a few of the classes, show them all how it’s done. I’d supervise, of course.” His hand squeezed her waist to prove his point. She didn’t bother catching herself when her foot sailed forward out of time, squashing his big toe.

He grinned at her, even as his eyes watered in pain. “You’re an impressive woman.”

“Thank you,” she said thinly, extracting herself from his grasp as the song warbled to a close.

As the man to her left swept his partner into a precarious-looking dip, Brienne caught a glimpse of Sansa at the room’s edge, smiling as Joffrey whispered something in her ear. A wave of protectiveness surged through her and she started forward, only to be knocked back as the crowd around her hastily parted, shuffling to form a circle around the perimeter of the dancefloor. Tormund caught her arm and pulled her into the throng just as a couple cloaked in red darted past her, all blonde hair and long, lithe limbs, to take their place in the newly vacant centre.

“Here we go.” She felt Tormund shift beside her. “The entertainment staff. Don't see the fuss about them, myself. I prefer the magician; he saws guests in half. Gives the retirees a thrill.”

Brienne blinked. “What—”

The trumpets blared to life, cutting her off with a burst of full, rounded sound. A spotlight clicked into place, dousing the couple with warm light, silhouetting them with a golden halo. Brienne’s eyes widened when she saw them clearly, a response she suspected they were used to. With their softly curling blonde hair and angled faces, they looked as though they’d waltzed off the pages of one of medieval romances she’d studied in history. They looked like the heroes, like the people who won the kingdom in the end. Brienne didn’t usually care much for beauty. Too many people used her lack of it as a justification for talking to her like a piece of shit on their shoe, yet she’d also seen countless men use Margery’s abundance of good looks as an excuse for treating her much the same way. It was a slippery, undefinable thing, and Brienne had long since given up chasing something that held no reward. There was something oddly captivating about this pair, though. As the man placed a strong-knuckled hand at the woman’s waist and she sliced through the air with her hips in a figure-of-eight, Brienne was struck by how every movement they made served a _purpose_ , every reach of their limbs, every tense of a muscle, seemed to slot together with perfect fluidity, carrying them across the floor with such grace it took her breath away. The power of it, the strength – it was beautiful, truly.

“They – they do this every night?” Brienne asked. "This is their job?"

Tormund snorted. “No. When they’re not putting on a show, they’re teaching. This is meant to sell lessons.”

As the band swelled to an impassioned crescendo, the pair moved to opposite sides of the circle, so close that Brienne could smell sweat and perfume mingling on the woman’s skin. Then, the woman ran at the man full-tilt and just before their bodies crashed together, his hands snaked out and caught her, lifting her body from the floor and twirling her once around his head before she landed again, her feet delicately finding purchase on the ground. Brienne stared. Surely no lessons could buy someone that sort of elegance. It had to be something you were born with, like dark hair or a snub nose or, in her case, absolutely no control of her hips.

“Someone’s unhappy.” Tormund’s voice snapped her from her reverie. He jerked his head towards her parent’s table. As Selwyn and Catelyn clapped along to the dance, Tywin looked thunderous. His hands were gripping the back of the chair in front of him so hard that his knuckles had turned white. As Brienne watched, he raised his left hand and drew it sharply across his throat, an unspoken command.

The male dancer noticed first and his grin, bordering on arrogant as he lowered down his partner from another perfect lift, faded, his features sinking back into impassive storybook stillness. He squeezed his partner’s hand, urging her to look at Tywin with a barely perceptible incline of his head. The woman hid her displeasure better than her partner had. She merely dropped his hands and grabbed a holiday-goer from the edge of the circle, pulling him towards her with a charmed laugh and a twirl. At another sharp signal of Tywin’s to the conductor, the music settled into something steadier, a heartbeat instead of an erratic pulse.

“Grab a partner!” the female dancer said, her voice carrying over music. It was a lower voice than Brienne had expected. It belonged in a jazz bar with a martini in its hand. It was the sort of voice Yara would attempt to woo on a night out – sultry, she’d call it. “Next – the mambo!”

The man crossed to the other side of the circle, his jaw still visibly working. Brienne released her breath in a loud gust as he held his hand out to Sansa and she took it, leaving Joffrey scowling by the stage. Relief and something else, something sharper, uncoiled in her stomach as she watched the two professionals guide their newfound partners. Wistfulness, perhaps? An image of her own untrained feet stomping all over the dancer’s toes flooded her brain. _Don’t be ridiculous. You’d make a fool of yourself._ She almost laughed. Almost.

Brienne took a small step backwards until she felt the cool wall pressed flush against her back. She pressed her palms to it, anchoring herself there. Her heart began to slow, her cheeks lose their angry red hue.

“So,” Tormund sidled up to her, “that magician. I told Sam I’d find one of the audience members to help out with – I don’t know – some bloody handkerchief trick. What do you think?” He raised his hands at her glare. “I won’t try to dance with you again, not unless you ask. I like my toes.”

“I…” Excuses stood poised on the tip of her tongue, but she caught them before they slipped free. At the edge of the dancefloor, Selwyn and Catelyn watched her, their arms wrapped around each other as they swayed in time to the music. Cat flashed her a vaguely conspiratorial grin when their eyes met, and Brienne groaned internally. _Gods, they think I like him. No wonder they look so pleased with themselves._ She didn’t even want to picture how crestfallen her father would be if she slunk back to the safety of her seat, suitor forgotten. It would be as bad as the time Ronnie Connington stood her up at prom. Selwyn had waited up with her all night whilst her rose corsage wilted. Brienne sighed. She could spend half-an-hour playing at being a magician’s assistant, surely. It was better than standing here and waiting – for what exactly, she didn’t know. For somebody else to offer her a dance, perhaps? That was wishful thinking. It had been a while since the last time she’d had more than one offer for a dance partner.

_“Gods, what a poor excuse for a woman.”_

_“I’d rather fuck an actual beast than her.”_

Brienne bit back the memories, ignoring the sour taste of them on her tongue. She would not cry, not here. Surely, she’d sobbed herself dry by now. Besides, as irritating as Tormund was, he probably wasn’t hiding some ugly ulterior motive. Now she’d shut down his advances with a well-placed kick, the most he’d ask of her would be a decent tip when she left this godsforsaken place.

“Fine,” said Brienne. She turned and left without a backwards glance at the dancefloor, leaving Tormund to hurry after her. She needed air, space, somewhere she could move and breathe without fearing that one wrong step would send somebody flying.

_I’m sure you’d get the hang of it_. A near-deranged laugh tore free from Brienne as she remembered Margery’s words. _I guess we’ll never find out, Marg_.

**

Except, of course, she did.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brienne stumbles across a staff party. Watermelon wrangling, angsty allusions and a touch of dirty dancing ensues.

By the time her father and stepfamily returned to the lodge, Selwyn’s cheeks flushed with dancing and sherry, Brienne was lying on the bed with a hot water bottle pressed against her lower back. The magician had been ill that night, so one of the stagehands – Sam, he had stammered at her - had stepped up. Or rather, he’d been pushed. One look at his panicked gaze and sweaty palms and Brienne had known he was about as excited to be there as she was. He’d botched the handkerchiefs so badly that, with a twinge of pity, she’d agreed to let him perform the saw trick on her. She’d spent the last half-an-hour crammed into a tiny box with fake feet attached to the other end, so laughably small and heel-clad that they obviously weren’t hers. The tremulous smile that had broken out on Sam’s face at the resultant applause had made it seem worth it at the time, though she was paying for it dearly with an aching back now.

“Joffrey invited me to the golf course, tomorrow,” Sansa said. She sat in front of the dresser, experimenting with her long, auburn hair, flicking strands behind her ear, pulling it up and then down with busy hands. “I think he might actually like me.” She let out a sound halfway between a squeal and a yelp. “A Yale graduate, Brienne!”

“Why should it matter where he goes to college?” Arya grumbled from her perch in the bunk slotted above Sansa’s.

“I don’t want him to think I’m stupid. People always think I’m stupid.”

“Well, then they’re the stupid ones,” Brienne said. It baffled her that Sansa – _Sansa_ – could get so wound up trying to dissect the inner workings of the male brain. How could someone so loved by all feel so insecure? “Baratheon – Joffrey – you’re not meeting him alone are you?”

Sansa was suddenly very interested in the pattern of wood grains on the dresser.

Brienne sighed. When she’d been introduced to the Stark girls a few years prior, she’d wavered between nervous excitement at the prospect of having two sisters and panic at the idea of them not liking her. In the pretty picture she’d painted in her mind, sisters were friends built in, ready-made allies. She hadn’t been prepared, three years ago, for the confusing mess of concern and exasperation and grudging affection it would truly entail. And with Sansa, it entailed a lot of it. “Sansa, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Men can be…”

“Men,” Arya supplied.

“Well, yes,” said Brienne. “Men can be men, and that means men can be cruel.”

Sansa chewed her lower lip. Brienne had meant what she said – Sansa was far from stupid. She was simply idealistic, sheltered. It was probably healthy for Sansa to have a little more scepticism than she did. Still, a long-dormant part of Brienne ached on her behalf. It was hard, she thought, the day little girls realised that knights and swordfights and magic didn’t exist, yet the tower they were locked in somehow still did. Perhaps that was why, in college, Brienne had jumped at the chance to pick up the sword for herself.

“Do you think he’s not really interested, then? He doesn’t actually like me?”

Guilt spasmed through Brienne at the crestfallen look on Sansa’s face. Gods, why was she so bad at this? “No! No, that’s not what I mean at all. I just mean…I don’t know, be careful. With your heart. You’re less likely to drop it than some man with a fancy degree is.”

The room was quiet for a moment, save the sound of Sansa dragging her hairbrush through her auburn locks absentmindedly. Arya had no further comments to make and had buried her nose into a thick fantasy volume she’d pinched out of Brienne’s case. The cover was irritating; the knight’s grip on his ruby-encrusted sword pommel was all wrong.

Unable to shake the feeling that she’d somehow made a colossal mess of things, Brienne stood, ducking just in time to miss the low ceiling. She reached for the chest of draws, exchanging her water bottle for a thick woolly cardigan. It was bobbled and worn from countless washes, but its blue hue was still bright, and the wool smelled faintly of old books and detergent. She clutched it like a comfort blanket.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said abruptly.

The two girls barely looked up as she walked past, both too caught up in fantasy worlds.

*

Brienne drew her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. Though it was July, the night air had a bite to it that pinched at her cheeks and fingers. _Summers in Tarth have spoilt me_ , she thought grumpily, rubbing her palms harshly over the gooseflesh on her forearms.

It would be warmer in the Great Hall, but Brienne could hear the high-pitched peals of laughter and dainty lilt of the waltz spilling out of the doors as she walked past, and she gave it a wide berth. Perhaps if she kept walking, she could find an empty path to wander down, a quiet place to pull at the fraying threads of her thoughts. The image of Sansa’s wide eyes and wobbling lip filled her mind, and Brienne shut her eyes against the guilt of being the one to put it there. Why did people always misunderstand her intentions? Her mother would’ve known exactly what to say to Sansa, Brienne knew that. Would have stayed her tears with a gentle hand and a few well-chosen words. How was it that Brienne had inherited nothing of hers? Not her beauty, not her tact. Brienne craved for people to cup her face as they did Sansa’s and say _you have your mother’s hair_ with a nostalgia-tinted smile, to laugh at her as they did when Arya scowled and became _the very image of Lyanna – just look at her_! When Brienne looked in the mirror, she did not see anything of her mother. What Kenna Tarth had been was lost to the air and to the sea and when Brienne reached for her now, she grasped only air.

If Brienne had hoped for some silence to contemplate this, she didn’t get it. As soon as she passed the Great Hall and started on the path down towards the resort’s borders, her ears filled with the opening bars of an Otis Redding song. Taking a cautious step forward, she spied a wooden structure tucked at the end of the cobbled path. It was the only place in the little world of Lannister’s that didn’t look postcard-perfect, with its peeling red paint and teetering floors. The map – Brienne had memorised it carefully so as not to get lost and accidentally wander in on a game of charades – had called it the staff quarters. It figured that Tywin Lannister, with his cold coin-like eyes and thin-lip smile, would tighten his purse strings for the very staff that kept the resort functioning well enough to put money in it in the first place.

Brienne shuffled from one foot to the other, glancing up and down the path. It was probably safe to return. She couldn’t wander around in the dark forever and, besides, Sansa would likely be asleep now, so Brienne wouldn’t have to scramble for anymore awkward attempts at sisterly advice. It was best to go before one of the summer staff found her and attempted to deposit her on her father’s doorstep with a plastered-on smile and hopes for a tip.

She had just turned to go when, cutting through raucous music, Brienne heard a yelp followed by a stream of what she could only describe as truly creative swearing. She whirled back towards the staff house and hurried down the path, quickly calling to mind self-defence techniques. Rounding the corner, she spotted the sound’s unlikely source: Tyrion, shaking as he attempted to balance three ginormous watermelons on top of each other and climb a rickety flight of wooden stairs to the staff house at the same time. _He’s going to fall and break his neck trying that,_ Brienne thought. _Or at least his pride_.

“Hey!” she called. She regretted it the moment the greeting had left her tongue because it set Tyrion off again, scrabbling to grip the watermelons that slid around in his arms like huge bars of soap.

Brienne hesitated a mere second at the ‘Staff Only’ sign and then started forwards, wresting the top two watermelons from his grasp to reveal Tyrion’s face, lined with surly stress and a hint of rueful embarrassment.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry!” Brienne blabbered, scrambling to grip the damp fruit. The cool, wet skin felt fresh from the freezer and she suspected that they’d been nabbed from the storage set to provide the next day’s breakfast buffet. Perhaps if she were less embarrassed about the whole thing, she’d have taken him to task about it.

The stress on Tyrion’s face faded into something more amicable. “Ah, my knight in shining armour. Ser Brienne. You really that keen for a job here?”

“No,” said Brienne, earning herself a laugh.

“Fair enough,” he said. He extended his arms out to her as best as he could, though she could barely see his fingers beneath the watermelon. “Come on, then, give them here.”

Brienne clung to the fruit stubbornly. “You’ll drop them again.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

“Let me help you.”

“You should start asking for tips, if you’re going to go around offering your services all the time.”

Brienne looked at him levelly, and then pushed the watermelons back towards him. His eyes widened under the sudden weight. Her point proven, she snatched them back.

“Stop being clever,” she said, “and let me help you before you break something.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, then nodded. Brienne could practically see the nonchalant wave of the hand that would’ve accompanied the expression if he could’ve moved. “Fine. But best keep quiet about this. Tywin would kill me if he knew. Your father would probably kill you.”

“My father isn’t really the killing sort,” said Brienne. It was rather counter-intuitive for a doctor.

“Lucky, that.”

He started off up the steps before Brienne could question him further. Telling herself that he’d probably just come across three stray watermelons and not stolen them from storage, she followed. In fairness to Tyrion, it was harder than it looked to carry two watermelons the size of your average house cat up a flight of stairs that creaked with every footstep. Brienne had almost dropped them twice by the time they reached the door to the staff-house, the thump of the music sounding less distant with every step.

Sudden horror mounted in Brienne. “Are they having a party or something?” She’d volunteered – _volunteered_ – to walk into a party, of all things. Her experience of parties could be summed up with a few sips of beer, quickly discarded when she decided that the warm piss-like liquid was not tempting enough to throw off her training plan, and leery frat boys asking _how much do you lift, bruh?_ before trying to wrangle Margery’s number. And at least at those parties, she’d had her friends glued to her side as an emotional shield of sorts. This, whatever this was, was uncharted territory. Brienne gripped the watermelons tighter so they wouldn’t slip in her clammy palms.

Tyrion just grinned at her, wide and wicked. “Or something.”

He kicked the doors open. With them flung wide, the music was even louder than she’d realised, and she could feel the beat of it reverberate in the ground beneath her feet.

The first thing she noticed was the heat. Bodies crowded the room, twisting to the rhythm of Otis Redding, and the air was heavy with perfume, cigarette smoke and sweat. It was a small room, even with all the chairs and tables shoved to the sides, and the two dozen or so couples dancing in that space couldn’t help but press together as they moved. And, gods, how they _moved_. It made her blush just to see it. It was all writhing hips and elegant hands, long hair in faces that shined with sweat and sex. It was like their bodies were trying to mimic the richness of the music, moving together in a way that reminded Brienne that a body was one fluid thing, not an accumulation of awkward, unconnected parts. Yet it wasn’t lewd, not like those frat boys that would thrust themselves at girls shamelessly with a leer in their eyes. It was simply charged; the room crackled with an energy that made Brienne’s heart thump in time to the song.

“Where did they learn that?” Brienne asked, her eyes bugging as she watched a woman bend backwards towards the floor, held in place only by her partner’s hands at her waist. The partner caught her looking and grinned, catching his cigarette against his teeth with the tip of his tongue. Brienne looked hastily at the floor.

Tyrion shrugged. “Gods, people are doing it everywhere these days. Probably started in their basements back home.”

“I didn’t mean – I wasn’t asking —”

He chuckled, a sound more gentle than mocking. “I know, Brienne. And as for your question – they’re dancers, trained for the ballroom. Most of this fun stuff they improvise. A way to let loose after propping up guests in the waltz position all day.” He began to work his way through the thicket of dancers. “Come on. These cocktails won’t garnish themselves.”

Brienne inched forwards gingerly, cringing out of the way as people continued to dance around her. When the man who had winked at her offered her his hand with a grin, his bare chest glistening with sweat, she just stared at him in silent shock until he shrugged and went back to helping his partner twist around his body like a fifth limb.

“You can stay if you want,” said Tyrion when she reached him. He was slicing watermelon and pressing it onto the rims of plastic cups with quick efficiency. “You’ve earned a drink.”

Brienne opened her mouth to reply but was cut off by a cheer from the room as two more people burst through the doors. They were the blonde dancers from earlier, Brienne realised after a moment. They looked more relaxed, now, the man with a beer in his hand and his chin tilted up with easy arrogance, the woman all coy smiles and small, well-timed laughs. As the final chorus played, the man thrust his bottle towards the nearest dancer and roped his partner in, easily falling into rhythm with the rest of the room. The hall was alive, it had its own heartbeat, and the blonde couple stood at the centre of it all, king and queen.

“Who are they?” Brienne blurted.

Tyrion’s smile turned wry, and he took a large swig of his drink. “That’s my beloved older brother and sweet, sweet sister. Jaime and Cersei Lannister. Tywin’s greatest pride and his greatest disappointment, all rolled into one blonde package.”

Brienne watched them move with undisguised shock, this new revelation echoing in her ears. “They’re brother and sister?”

He snorted at her expression. “Twins, actually. But, gods, not like that, don’t worry. There’s been some nasty rumours because of the nature of the job, but the truth is they learnt to walk together, they learnt to talk together, and then they learnt to dance together. It’s habit.”

“Did your father teach them?” Surely only Tywin Lannister could drum such fluidity and preciseness into every bone of his children’s bodies.

Tyrion took another gulp of his drink. “No.”

“Oh. Well, they look great together. That is, they dance very well together.”

He cast her an amused glance. “Yes. They do.”

The song changed and the room split, couples crossing to opposite side, one-by-one reuniting and dancing through the centre together. Upon releasing his sister, the man – Jaime – caught sight of Tyrion and grinned. Almost with a laugh, Brienne realised that he looked exactly like the incompetent knight on the cover of Arya’s fantasy novel. High cheekbones and his chin raised in a challenge to the world. Storybook prettiness.

He made his way towards them, shaking his hair out of his flushed face with the nonchalant ease of someone who knew that they look good.

“Where have you been?” he asked his brother, plucking the glass from Tyrion’s fingers and quickly eating the watermelon perched on it. Brienne supposed he was older – Galladon had always done things like that to her.

“I could ask the same of you.”

“I had something to take care of.”

“And how did that work out for you?” Tyrion asked casually, pouring himself another drink. Jaime waited patiently for him to fill the glass, then grabbed it and stole the watermelon once more. “You dog. Make you own drink and answer my questions.”

“I’m working on it, alright?” The two brothers looked at each other, eyes intent. Brienne glanced away from it, giving the unspoken conversation privacy. When she turned back, Jaime’s eyes were on her. Green eyes, she realised. Not as cold as Tywin’s.

“Who’s this?” It was a question meant for Tyrion, not for her. Brienne couldn’t detect any open derision in his expression – she thought not, anyway – but she noticed the quirk in his mouth as he took in her fidgeting hands and stiff posture and she tensed anyway. Fighting the urge to cringe away, she stood tall and put as much righteousness as she could into her glare. And Jaime Lannister _laughed._ Brienne scowled. Her glare was a refined thing, she’d had years of practice using it on assholes far crueller than some man with a rich father and an obnoxious grin. It wasn’t a thing to be laughed at.

“Brienne Tarth,” said Tyrion. He watched their exchange with the open delight of someone anticipating their older sibling being put in their place. “Daughter of the doctor we have to thank for father sticking around with us all. She came with me.”

Both men stared at her expectantly, waiting for her to introduce herself. If she had more time, just a moment more, perhaps Brienne could’ve formulated some sort of dignified response, some introduction that established that just because she blushed and fidgeted and stuck out like an awkward taffeta-clad thumb in the centre of this flock of dancers, she wasn’t here to be intimidated by two men who seemed to find her a novelty. Instead, as always, nerves tackled her tongue and scalded her cheeks.

“I carried a watermelon,” she said. Both men stared. _I carried a watermelon? Pull yourself together, Brienne._

“Two watermelons,” Tyrion said. “She saved me from falling to my death outside.”

“A damsel in distress,” said Jaime, grinning at his brother.

“Saved by a knight in shining …taffeta,” Tyrion finished, bowing at Brienne.

Brienne glanced at the door. Now was probably the best time to make her escape, although part of her was almost tempted to shuffle back into a corner and watch the dancers. There was something about the way they moved – with abandon, with grace, with athleticism – that she found infinitely more exciting than the awkward shuffling she’d seen in the Great Hall. Before she could make up her mind, the elder Lannister thrust his hand in her face.

“Come on then, Ser Knight,” he said. His voice was light but there was a challenge in his eyes, in the set of his chin. Brienne felt her head snap up and her shoulders draw back in response. “Let’s see you dance.”

“I don’t know how to dance.”

“You’ll learn.” He had not lowered his hand yet, so, hesitating a second, she took it. It was strong hand, with long fingers and broad knuckles that wrapped around her palm with a firm grip. She cursed herself for not wiping the clamminess away on her skirts first, but he didn’t flinch or shift. As he led her into the room’s centre, she thought she heard the throaty laughter of his twin, but Jaime’s hold on her hand was solid enough that it propelled her forwards, rendering her unable to look back.

They reached a small space in the middle of the room, having dodged beer spills and swaying couples and several dancers who grabbed at Jaime, clasping his shoulder or tugging at his collar with a flirty grin as he strode past.

 _What on earth do I do now?_ He was still looking at her in the same way, with a challenge in his eyes and the ghost of a smirk on his lips. She wasn’t exactly sure how to respond – try and sway in time to the music, perhaps? Nobody around her was swaying, so maybe not. But if she tried to copy the other dancers, rolling her hips or tossing what she could of her cropped blonde hair, she’d look like she was trying too hard. Her arms folded around herself in what she hoped looked like a casual gesture and not like an attempt to hold the rapidly crumbling pieces of herself together in the middle of a dancefloor.

Jaime tapped his fingers against her arm brusquely. She could feel that the sweat of her own palms had made his sticky with perspiration. There was something oddly intimate about it that unsettled her. Instinctively, she crossed her arms tighter.

“You can’t dance like that,” said Jaime, irritation inching into his voice. “Not well, anyway.”

Slowly, she lowered her arms so they hung, albeit stiffly, by her sides.

Jaime sighed and dropped his charm, replacing it with a blunt teacherly manner. “Right, bend at the knees. Not that much. Don’t look so shy, I thought you were a knight, not a wench—”

“ _Wench_?” Brienne echoed incredulously, rising to her full height. Jaime looked at her for a moment then laughed for real, a startled bark. His face was softer when he laughed, lacked some of the hardness that Tywin Lannister had clearly carved into the features of all his children alike.

“Wench, Ser, Brienne, my lady – whatever you wish to be called – names don’t matter here, you understand? What you say doesn’t matter here. All that matters is that you move, so let go of whatever is holding you back and do what your body wants to.”

 _My body wants to slap you in the face_ , Brienne thought, though her mouth was too dry to speak the words. He gestured for her to bend at the knees and this time she did so, letting go of the breath she’d been holding in her chest with a sharp huff. Her body loosened, smoothed its rigid edges. She ignored the warm flush of pride she felt when she saw him nod, approving the improvement.

“Now, move your hips – like, no, like this.” He pointed to his hips which had begun to move in slow, tight circles. _I will not blush for him_ , Brienne thought, staring determinedly at the wall as she attempted to mimic the movement. Her hips lacked the fluidity of his, it seemed, jerking from side to side and front to back in harsh, robotic motions. She had no chance of looking like him but, she realised grimly, no choice but to try if she was going to keep that smug smile off his face. After another verse of the song, she felt her pelvis loosen slightly.

“Good,” said Jaime, nodding, “better. So, now…” He placed his hands on her hips, atop the curve, just as she’d seen him do with Cersei. She almost cringed away from the touch, but his hands were nothing like Hyle’s had been. They didn’t roam or squeeze or knead. _You’re not a prop this time_ , Brienne thought. _You’re a partner_. Jaime stepped forward and aligned his body against hers as the music quickened. She was an inch or so taller but, Brienne thought cautiously, that actually seemed to help. Their closeness in height allowed their limbs to fit together, legs pressed to leg, stomach to stomach. She could feel the flesh of his lower abdomen give slightly under the hardness of her hipbones, and she hoped the sudden redness of her cheeks would be written off as a side effect of the heat.

“Don’t stop moving,” Jaime urged as she faltered, nudging her forward with his own hip.

Tentatively, she twitched her hips in a slow circle, blinking in surprise as Jaime followed her, easing back when she pressed forward so their bodies remained together as they moved. She realised a second too late that convention dictates that she shouldn’t have led, but Jaime didn’t seem to mind, and if taking control over the movement made Brienne stand taller instead of shrinking back inside herself like a wilting flower, then lead she would.

As her hips and torso continued to move and the song descended into a riff, Jaime reached for her arms and tossed them around his neck, a more laidback embrace than the stiff ballroom hold she recognised. She could enjoy this, she realised, as Jaime grinned at her triumphantly. Perhaps not as much as Margery said she would, but she could enjoy this. Using her body as an entity, a unit, listening to it instead of fighting. This felt fluid, natural. This felt like swordplay.

Then, as the song’s final words were crooned, Brienne felt Jaime’s body tense up against hers. In one fluid motion, he disengaged himself from her, grabbing her hand and twisting her in a final half-hearted spin that left her stumbling.

Brienne blinked dizzily, following Jaime’s line of vision to Cersei’s retreating back as the tall blonde hurried from the room. Even with her hair falling down her back and her ankles bloodied from her heels, Cersei was golden.

“Wench,” Jaime muttered in farewell, his eyes never leaving Cersei’s path. He set off through the crowd, already half-running after his sister.

Brienne watched him go. She could feel her pulse in her throat, in her feet, behind her eyelids. Nobody spared her a glance. Nobody noticed that, not for the first time, Brienne Tarth was stood alone in the centre of a dance floor, with a flushed face and trembling hands. _This isn’t like last time,_ she told herself firmly. _It wasn’t you he ran from._ She didn’t want her own insecurities to take this night away from her. To take the fact that she had danced and enjoyed it away from her. Tonight was hers and she would hold onto it.

She felt something brush against her elbow and turned to see Tyrion, his eyes also intent on the place where his siblings had disappeared.

“What was that about?” Brienne asked.

Tyrion shrugged. “You know, I have no idea.”

He spoke a beat too late to hide the lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!
> 
> So sorry it's been a while with the updates - that's what happens when you try and juggle university, a job and a fanfiction together, I guess. 
> 
> This chapter was a real struggle for me to write because there were a lot of plot threads to put in place, hence why it's a bit of a long one this week. Hopefully chapters will be a little more consistent length-wise from here on out.
> 
> I'll be going on holiday for seven days from tomorrow without my laptop to a place without wifi (shock, horror, etc) so it'll probably be one and a half to two weeks until my next update. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this one!
> 
> Peace and love, fire and blood x


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brienne hears a rumour, tells a lie, and agrees to something impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is incredibly late. Life kicked my butt for a while there. It happens. This chapter IS rather long though, so hopefully you can understand why it took a lot more time to complete than I would have liked. It's also not beta-ed so I'm sorry for any errors - I just wanted to get it out there as quick as possible!
> 
> I hope you enjoy it and, as always, thank you for reading.
> 
> Peace and love, fire and blood x

The next morning at breakfast, the air was heavy with sleep and pointed silence. Arya had dumped the unmistakable evidence of the previous evening in Brienne’s bed at an ungodly hour that morning: Sansa’s shoes, caked in mud and sand, the trekked-in remnants of a golf course. When Sansa had seen, her mouth had gone very thin and very hard and very Catelyn-like, and she’d turned around and left the room without a word. She hadn’t so much as looked at either of them since, no matter how many anxious glances Brienne shot her over the milk jug. She just carried on prodding at her grapefruit quarters with a fork, her face murderous.

The silence was finally broken when Selwyn and Catelyn went up for seconds.

“Don’t you dare judge me, Brienne.” The fork speared the fruit’s flesh. “Just don’t.”

 “I’m not!” she protested, quickly downing her own breakfast – a heap of eggs, she wanted to keep her protein up, even if she wouldn’t be playing actively again until the fall. “Sansa, I’m not, I swear. It’s not even you – it’s Joffrey. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

Sansa finally looked at her, eyes wide with exasperation. Maybe Brienne felt a little bit guilty, smothering her like this. Margery had a Shakespeare quote tacked above her bed that Brienne had found so fitting for Sansa, she’d bought her the print for Christmas. _Look like th’innocent flower, but be the serpent under’t._ Sansa was as much serpent as flower, as much bite as smile. Brienne knew that. But she was also, whether by blood or by marriage or by hours spent on lazy summer mornings lying by the record player drinking lemonade, her sister. That _meant_ something. That meant everything.

Sansa shook her head tightly. “I – gods, I don’t need you to protect me, Brienne.” She jabbed her fork in Arya’s direction. “Or you.”

Arya met her sister’s warning glare head on. “I don’t like him.”

 “I do,” said Sansa simply.

Gods, the look on her face – the infatuation clung to her like a fog, clouding her vision. Brienne knew that look – had worn that look for months on end in her first semester until Margery had gently broken it to her that their RA, Renly, was more likely to sneak into her twin brother Loras’s dorm than hers. Brienne pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled. Her crush on Renly had passed. With time, and tears, and shame, but it had passed, and it would for Sansa, too. For now, she’d just have to hope that the pieces of Sansa’s heart were still intact when the fog cleared.

Sansa watched the breath with a strange pinch between her eyebrows, but if she were going to say anything else, the moment was ruined by Selwyn and Catelyn sitting down with a mountain of pancakes and more eggs for Brienne.

Nobody spoke again during breakfast, and Sansa’s grapefruit remained untouched.

*

They were half-way back to the cabin when a chill shivered through the air and Brienne suddenly noted the absence of warm blue wool around her shoulders. She waved the others on. At least this way she’d miss that morning’s face-painting tournament.

The dining hall was empty save from a few plates dotted with fatty strings of bacon and spots of yellow yolk. Brienne scanned the chairs until she spotted the a flash of blue hanging from a chair leg. She grabbed it and shoved her arms in, grateful for the layer of comforting warmth, like a second skin. Before she could leave, the sound of raised voices, leather shoes against the floor, and then the unmistakable _click_ of a doorknob had her turn sharply towards the staff entrance which, sure enough, was being opened by the handle.

Brienne liked to think of herself as fairly logical. If not logical, _sensible._ People – adults, especially – always said it like it was a compliment. _She may be an unfortunate thing, but at least we don’t have to worry about her. She’s sensible._ But a sensible person would’ve smiled as the door opened before leaving with a breezy excuse about leaving their jacket. They would not, Brienne thought angrily as she hugged a chair leg, be so overcome with worry at having to talk to unimpressed looking frat boys that they duck down behind the nearest table with a gasp. And yet here she was, her cheek pressed to the chair, her eyes scanning the gap between the tablecloth and the floor. _Gods._

“…don’t give a damn,” she heard Tywin Lannister say coolly as the door finally gave.

Brienne gripped the chair legs to steady herself as Tywin Lannister strode into the dining hall, flanked by half-a-dozen waiters all donning red bow ties and sullen expressions. She spotted a shock of blonde hair at the front, on Tywin’s right. Joffrey. Her grip on the chair tightened, nails eating into the flesh of her palm. What was she _doing_ , eavesdropping like this? It wasn’t like she cared what Tywin or Joffrey thought of her. It would be easier to just slip out now rather than be discovered by them, staring down at her with a smirk.

“You were handpicked from the finest colleges our nation has to offer,” Tywin continued. His eyes scanned them all, and Brienne knew that he’d spot her the second she tried to flee. With a glare like that, she was surprised he couldn’t see her through the table. “I was promised quality. I was promised professionalism. Continue to fall short of this, and you will be escorted from these premises with no pay, no reference, and no reputation.” From anyone else, the threat may have sounded malicious, yet Tywin spoke with a calm that made Brienne’s stomach clench more than if he had yelled. She did not doubt that he would do as he said, without hesitation and without qualms.

“Win the people,” said Tywin. Brienne watched the black leather of his shoes slap the linoleum as he paced in front of his employees.  “Charm them, flatter them, earn their favour. Win their daughters, if you wish.” There were a few snickers at this, and Brienne’s scowled at Tywin Lannister’s pinstriped back.

Was that what Joffrey was doing? _Winning_ Sansa? He was making a game of her, just as the guys at college had made a game of Brienne, laughing at her attempts to coif her hair and blot her lipstick. Sansa – sweet Sansa, smart Sansa, the Sansa that had once slammed her sewing machine down on a guy’s hand for calling Brienne _a dumb fuck with a face to match_ – was a blackjack chip in Joffrey’s gamble with success. She was his stepping-stone.

A wild impulse seized Brienne to lunge out of her hiding place and smack Joffrey, and perhaps Tywin Lannister, too. But before she could so much as think, the staff doors swung open once more and another two pairs of feet hit the linoleum. Craning her neck, Brienne could recognise the guy who’d asked her to dance the night before. He had sunglasses on – probably nursing a horrific hangover – and was laughing with Jaime Lannister, whose own sunglasses were pushing his hair back. He had a small widow’s peak, Brienne noted. Hyle had always tried to hide his, complaining that it was a sign of early balding. Jaime wore his like he knew it had absolutely no negative effect on his attractiveness. Which, she had to admit grudgingly, it didn’t. Insecurity didn’t seem to exist in the vocabulary of these siblings. 

The first man slowed slightly at the sight of the meeting, pausing to nod at Tywin. Jaime ignored it entirely and strode past, so close to her table that she held her breath. She stared determinedly at his feet, worried that the feel of her eyes on him would give her away, and was surprised to see the dance shoes there were well-worn and ratted. From what she’d seen of Tywin, and even of Cersei and Tyrion, Lannister’s revelled in attention, in being seen, in looking, if not beautiful, striking. She’d never seen them with a hair out of place, let alone shoes that you could almost see the toes through.

“Good work, men,” he said lightly as he passed.

“Morning, Kingslayer,” Joffrey drawled, his head snapping up from the stack of napkins he’d been pedantically folding. His sullen expression had been lit up with one of joyous malignancy. He looked like a child being offered the keys to a candy store.

The dark-haired man to Joffrey’s left laughed. He was built like a tank and laughed like one, too; every guffaw blasted out of him. “Dancing again today? Don’t forget your leotard, Kingslayer.”

Jaime’s feet came to a holt a few meters beside her. Brienne watched them shift, one to the other, and wondered if images of Joffrey’s bleeding face were dancing before his eyes, too.

It wasn’t Joffrey he approached with a thin smile and a swagger, though. Jaime circled the dark-haired tank, looking him over from head-to-toe. He was taller than Jaime and larger, too, but the naked disdain in Jaime’s eyes seemed to strip away the bravado. “You just put your pickle on everybody’s plate, Baratheon, and leave the hard stuff to me.”

Low whistles of surprise and appreciation echoed throughout the room, and Brienne bit her lip to keep herself from doing the same. The wide, mocking smile on the dark-haired man’s face didn’t drop, but Brienne knew a defensive stance when she saw one, and the way his hulking arms tensed almost had her shout at Jaime to stand back.

“Jaime.” Tywin’s bored drawl cut through the apprehension. He looked at the two men standing off against each other, his lip curled in faint distaste. “Enough.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but no glance was spared for Tywin as he turned to leave. At the last moment, he plucked a napkin from the top of the stack that Joffrey was holding and tossed it carelessly to the floor in a crumpled heap. The boy – for even though he was in college, Brienne was damned if she would call the brattish boy a man – sent a mulish look to Tywin, his face dark with displeasure, but the older Lannister did nothing. Simply clicked his fingers, spurring the rest of the waiters to follow him from the hall, as Jaime and his friend strode in the opposite direction.

Brienne stayed crouched for a moment longer than she needed to once they had gone, with the dark-haired Baratheon’s loud laughter and a hum of Otis Redding echoing in her ears.

**

“Do you think I should go blonde?” Sansa asked. She had just finished folding her hair into a curly blonde wig and was patting out non-existent bumps and snags.  

“Um, not sure,” said Brienne. She yanked a red crop with bangs over her head but that just made the red in her cheeks redder, somehow. “You’d probably suit anything.”

“Joffrey likes blondes,” Sansa said absently, and Brienne had nothing to say to that, so she just pulled the red wig off and went to return it to the basket being guarded by Cersei Lannister.

Cersei, it seemed, had even less interest in the wigs than Brienne, for she’d turned away from the row of people donning curls and quiffs and was watching a family play charades across the lake. Though her face was vacant, her back was ramrod straight, disciplined even in daydreams.

 She looked so separate from everything that Brienne almost started when she spoke, her voice bored. “Can I help you?”

“No. No, thank you. I just wanted to…” She dropped the wig back into the basket in answer, then hesitated. “You’re – you’re a wonderful dancer, by the way. You and your brother both.”

The awkward olive-branch of a compliment hung between them as Cersei stared her down, eyes hard.  

“My father hates it,” she said abruptly. “Absolutely hates it. He offered my brother a place at business school if he quit this job. A full ride. He didn’t offer me the same, of course.”

From anyone else it would have been a confession, something earned with trust. But Cersei spoke to Brienne like she was daring the other woman to challenge her, daring her to judge. Brienne did no such thing, just stood there. She wasn’t exactly sure what to say to this revelation. She did not think Cersei was the sort of person who would take kindly to sympathy.

After another painful moment, Cersei rolled her eyes and slammed the scheduling book shut, stalking away without a word.

Brienne walked back to her seat, so stunned into silence she didn’t even bother returning Joffrey’s terse nod of acknowledgment. She hadn’t even heard him approach.

“What did you say to her?” Sansa hissed. Cersei’s disdainful exit had torn her attention from Joffrey, who was bent over her desk, one hand placed either side of her chair. He waved his hand, looking after Cersei with the bizarre mixture of appreciation and mirth that, in Brienne’s experience with Margery, assholes reserved for beautiful women they knew would never want them.

“Cersei’s always been a bitch,” he said, ignoring Brienne’s flinch. “Her brother’s worse, if you can believe it.”

“Tyrion?” Brienne said incredulously. She hardly would describe him as a _bitch_. Smart-mouthed and cocky, maybe.

Joffrey’s sneer deepened. “That little imp? No. Cersei’s twin brother. Jaime Lannister.” He grinned, his eyes glittering. “The Kingslayer.”

He looked from Sansa to Brienne, leaning forward in anticipation. Sansa indulged him first.

“The Kingslayer?” she repeated. “Why do you call him that?”

“It’s a dark old story. Not suitable for the ears of young ladies.”

Brienne did not consider herself particular young nor particularly a lady, so she just stared impassively as Sansa laughed and assured Joffrey they could handle themselves. Joffrey let her plead for a few more minutes before he sank into the seat beside her with a satisfied grin on his face.

“Once upon a time,” he began, his voice lowering dramatically, “when this place was still Targaryen’s – a mouthful to say, I know, they weren’t real Americans —”

Sansa’s kicked Brienne before she could angrily retort.

“ – Tywin Lannister was still here, working as the head of financial operations, but the reigning CEO was Aerys Targaryen. The Targayens had owned this land for generations. Even as other, older families faded with the Depression, the Targaryens remained, growing stronger, capitalising on the post-war boom. Aerys was convinced he single-handedly saved the family name from ruin. He didn’t just own this patch of land; it was his country. He called himself The King.” Joffrey threw his arms up as though to emphasise Aerys’s dominion.

“The Targaryens liked to keep business in the family, passing down leadership from son to son. But Aerys’s son, Rhaegar, wasn’t interested in business. Not after he fell in love, anyway. When he told his father his plans to marry and travel, Aerys flew into a rage. He cut Rhaegar off – no inheritance, no name, nothing – and shut himself in his office for days with nothing but a gun and a bottle of whiskey. Tywin tried to reason with him. The Lannisters and the Targaryens had been business partners for generations, he said, they wouldn’t desert him now. But Aerys was so obsessed with the idea of this dynasty he’d created, he saw it as some sort of business coup. Turned Tywin down, though he kept the twins on as advisers. To rub salt into the wound of his old friend, I think.”

Joffrey’s smile twisted, and Brienne sensed that they’d arrived at the part of the story he’d been waiting to tell. She swallowed hard, even as Sansa leaned forwards in rapt anticipation. “Then, one night, Jaime Lannister went over and beat the guy bloody. You couldn’t recognise his face after, they say. Pushed his nose into his skull, broke both his arms. Targaryen could barely speak, just kept gurgling the same words over and over, right up until the paramedics took him away.” Joffrey looked at the wide eyes of Sansa and Brienne, his own shining with perverse enjoyment at the tale. “Tywin covered it up, of course. Said Aerys was mad, that his accusations against Jaime were all false. He had him shipped off to some home where he died a few months later. Very sad.” He added the last bit on as an afterthought, not sounding particularly sad at all.

“That’s why the boys and I call him Kingslayer. To tell him we haven’t forgotten. That we know who he is. _What_ he is.” He poked Sansa in the ribs with a teasing smile. “A cold-blooded killer!”

His horror-movie voice coaxed a weak smile from Sansa, but Brienne stayed still, her stomach churning – whether from the images of a man beaten to within an inch of his life, or from the open enjoyment on Joffrey’s face as he recounted it, she wasn’t sure.

Sansa carried on smoothing her wig, bantering with Joffrey, not seeming to notice how Brienne pushed away from the table slightly, folding her arms around herself. When her hands brushed her sides, she recalled how Jaime’s had felt the night before – firm, yes, but gentle, too. Or so she’d thought. Those hands had hurt the man he’d worked for, all for some financial gain of his father. Those hands were bloodstained.

Perhaps this is what she should have expected from the Lannisters. The siblings might not be fully fledged Tywin copies as of yet, but surely they would be one day – everything golden and bright and gentle about them drained and replaced with the cold, with the desire for money that tainted everything. A small part of Brienne felt guilty – she’d always had money. Hadn’t had to think about it. Her father was comfortable and, as an only child, she’d always had both sets of grandparents invested in her and her future. But she’d had seen enough in some of the inner-city areas surrounding Tarth to know the degree of her fortune. To know that she’d been handed privilege on a platter whilst others scrambled for scraps. It was why she wanted to become a paralegal, to actually _do_ something with that rather than sit with her curtains drawn and pretend the world didn’t exist. People like the Lannister’s were the worst kind because they knew that a world existed outside their gilded windows; they just weren’t interested in it. They wanted to bury their heads in the sand or, worse, fight amongst each other for more when they already had plenty. It was more than gross and sleezy and corrupt – it was _wrong._ It was _unjust._

She pictured Jaime’s large, strong-knuckled hands stained crimson and shuddered, abruptly dropping her arms. He was not worth thinking about any longer. Men like that never were.

*

Tormund claimed her for another dance that night.

She let him lead her to the centre of the dancefloor with only a hint of a grudge. It wasn’t exactly his fault this time – her father had practically hauled him across to her the second they’d walked in, parroting on about how much Brienne had spoken about him since their last dance. Brienne and Arya had locked eyes, the younger girl barely suppressing a wide grin. She knew full well, as did Selwyn, that the only thing Brienne had said about Tormund since that night was ‘never again’. Brienne didn’t join in on Arya’s laughter, though. It didn’t feel right to mock someone just for wanting to be wanted for a little while.

At least in Tormund’s grip she could pass her evening fairly disengaged, vaguely listening to him talk about football scores and bench presses whilst she kept her mind busy running over the reading she’d done that summer to prepare for her second year. That was until she took one particularly poorly placed step backwards and stood on the foot of a small, middle-aged woman with a hawk-like face and glower.

“Sorry, I…”

Her stammered apology was cut short when she noticed that the woman’s dance partner, his hands resting lightly in a professional hold even as she clung to his lapels with an eager touch, was Jaime Lannister. The lady sniffed and turned back to Jaime with a disgusted huff when Brienne failed to finish her sentence.

“Apologies, Mrs Arryn,” Tormund called over Brienne’s shoulder. He pressed his cheek to her ear, and she resisted the urge to cringe at the scratch of his beard.  “That’s Lysa Arryn. She’s been here every summer for the past ten years. Married to some poor old suit who has no idea that the little ‘weekday holidays’ his wife goes on is just an excuse to cheat on him.”

Lysa _was_ clutching Jaime awfully tightly, her fingers insistently pulling his face to hers. But Jaime didn’t exactly look eager to seduce married women, Brienne thought. His plastered-on smile had an edge to it, and his hands on Lysa were firmly middle-school rules. _No touching midriffs, leave space for Jesus,_ as her tutor, Roelle, had told her.

The artificiality of the whole thing, the perfect Ken doll he seemed to be playing, knocked the anger that had been simmering inside her stomach up to boiling. It seemed irrational - it wasn’t like the _Kingslayer_ , she remembered how Joffrey had sneered the name, had harmed her personally. Yet, he had fooled her, had encouraged her into the spotlight for five exhilarating minutes. She had, in a strange way, trusted him in those few moments. Trusted him to put his hands on her, to be led by her; trusted that she could look at him and see something resembling respect in his eyes instead of outright mirth. She’d trusted him to be _decent,_ and so, without harming her at all, he’d let her down, by proving her worst suspicions about mankind and its terrible impulses right.

She was studying the him so intently that she barely noticed the approach of Tywin Lannister until his hand was on his son’s and he was pulling him a step away from Lysa Arryn with a faint smile a smooth excuse about business when the woman looked inclined to argue.

Brienne’s already waning interest in Tormund’s opinion on protein sources faded into non-existence at the sound of Tywin’s low, harsh voice.

“…is your sister?” Tywin asked, his grip tightening above his son’s elbow. “If she insists on taking this infernal job, she at least has to do her shift duties. She should be here by now.”

Jaime pulled his arm roughly from his father’s grip. The picture of poised calm when dancing with Lysa Arryn, he was now breathing heavily, his fists curled tightly by his sides.

“She’s taking a break,” he snapped. “She needs a break.”

Tywin regarded his son with cool, expressionless detachment, as though he could gain the upper hand in the situation simply by refusing to be part of it at all.

“As long as it’s not an all-night break,” he said, his voice closed with warning.

As his father walked away, Brienne saw something in Jaime deflate. His face, so alight with sweat and joy on the dancefloor, seemed older, more shadowed, though he couldn’t be more than six or seven years older than herself. He pressed his hands to his face, hard, then raked them through his hair, which fell haphazardly across his widow’s peak. The sudden vulnerability felt strange next to the image of Aerys Targaryen’s bloodied body in her mind, a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.

“Brienne?” Tormund’s hand on her arm brought her back to focus.

“Hmm?”

“Are you up for raiding the kitchens? I’m starving. Got nothing back at my place.”

Brienne tore her eyes away from Jaime. “Ok. I could eat.”

*

They were halfway to the kitchens when there was a rustle in the trees and Sansa burst from them, her red hair streaming out behind her like fire. She held a pair of nude mules in one hand as she stalked barefoot through the mud, her face surprisingly impassive as it splattered up her calves and thighs.

“Sansa!” she heard Joffrey drawl. He sauntered from the trees. “Sansa, come here. Don’t get worked up over nothing.”

“You told me…” Sansa said, her voice cracking despite the tension in her jaw. “You told me…”

Joffrey he sent his eyes towards the heavens, as though asking the sky, _women, right?_

Sansa’s eyes flashed with tears or with anger, Brienne wasn’t sure. “That’s _not_ an apology.”

“Keep listening, Sansa. Perhaps you’ll hear one in your dreams.” When Sansa did not smile, his own curled into one of disdain. “Get over yourself.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and strode off, leaving Sansa alone in the dark.

Brienne started after him, fully intent on kicking him where it would hurt most and telling him to _get over himself_ whilst he lay whimpering on the ground, but Tormund caught her arm. She shoved him off, but something about the cautious distrust with which he looked after Joffrey stilled her.

“He’ll want to prove himself if you make a scene,” he warned her. “Let him go. Let your sister go back to her cabin. Start something now, and he won’t stop until it’s finished.”

So, Brienne watched as Sansa’s face crumpled. She watched as a single tear made its way down her face, quickly batted away. She watched as Sansa took two deep breaths and put herself back together, piece by piece, a blistered foot jammed into the wrong shoe, thumbs swiping at the inky mascara stained beneath her eyes. Brienne watched Sansa up until her sister had shoved the key into their cabin door, standing guard over both the wilting flower that was gone and the serpent in its place.

*

The kitchens were eerie at night, these huge cold spaces rammed with clinical metal surfaces. Brienne hugged herself tightly, her mind already half back with Sansa at the cabin. She would have ran after her straight away had it not been for her fear of saying something so completely wrong again.

“What would you like?” Tormund was asking, his head stuck halfway into the fridge. “We’ve got some leftover brownie. Pasta. Chicken, I think…”

A thick tear-stained cough stuttered against the high ceilings of the kitchen. Brienne blinked, glancing around instinctively. The lights had been switched off when she and Tormund had arrived - surely nobody else could have entered without them noticing.

Another sound – a choked sob this time, roughly muffled. It was coming from somewhere downwards, Brienne realised, scanning the metal preparation tables in front of them with narrowed eyes. With a quick glance at Tormund who, to her relief, was too busy shoving leftover carbonara into his mouth to notice, Brienne crouched down to the floor and stared.

Folded into a corner, knees to her chest, her trembling fingers tangled in the straps of her dance shoes, was Cersei Lannister. Her eyes were bloodshot and her lips were cracked and, shining under the dull glow of metal, the wetness of tears stained her cheeks. Even sat as she was, cornered like a caged animal, Cersei did not flinch or look away in embarrassment at being caught. Her chin jutted forward, stubborn and proud, even as her body shook with emotion. Brienne knew that face – she’d tried to wear it a dozen times, never with so much success. _Don’t you dare pity me. I don’t want it._

Perhaps Cersei didn’t want Brienne’s pity, but she did need her help. Brienne scrambled to her feet, ignoring Cersei’s hiss of protest. “Tormund!”

He stared at her, a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. Brienne’s mind raced as pieces of a halfway-coherent plan began to slot together.

“I really should go and check on Sansa,” she said. “And speaking of checks, if you wanted to talk to my father about pre-sporting event medical examinations, I saw him by east entrance a little while ago…” The lie sounded awkward and stilted on her tongue, but Tormund lit up at the prospect and so she pushed her advantage, closing her hand around his shoulder and marching him from the room with her, spoon still in his grasp.

For the next five minutes, all she could do was repeat the steps of her plan over and over to herself like a mantra. _Clear kitchens, find Tyrion, take him to Cersei. Clear kitchens, find Tyrion, take him to Cersei._ She was a terrible liar, she flushed bright red and stuttered every time, but she was nothing if not efficient, and she pushed through each step of her plan as quickly as she could before anyone could notice her tells.

After dropping Tormund off to her father, Brienne hurried to the dancefloor. After a quick sweep of the room, her mistake hit her and she headed to the bar with the biggest queue she could find, around which stood a gaggle of people with elaborately coloured drinks.

“ _Tyrion_ ,” she hissed, beckoning at him frantically to lean closer to the bar. He handed a bright pink drink to a man across the bar and motioned at her to talk as he shoved the bills into his apron. As Brienne explained what she’d seen, her tongue tripping over itself in her haste, his eyes snapped up to where Jaime stood. He’d apparently been returned to the clasps of Lysa Arryn and, Brienne could see by the stiffness of his posture, was not enthused about it.

Tyrion pushed past Brienne and yanked his brother’s elbow, pulling him down and uttering a few short words in his ear. Jaime reacted _bodily,_ his whole form shuddering, and, quickly extracting himself from Lysa Arryn’s grip, he set off in the directions of the kitchen half-running.

Tyrion followed, stopping only to gesture impatiently at Brienne to follow, cutting off her protests with a curt, “If you don’t want us to get fired, follow me.”

 “…just doesn’t think sometimes,” Jaime was saying through his teeth as she finally caught up, lengthening her stride. It was the easiest part of her night so far, keeping pace with him. “I should go and speak to him myself —”

“And Cersei’s the one who doesn’t fucking think?” said Tyrion with a sharp look at his brother. “Father would find out in a heartbeat —”

“I don’t care.”

“You should!”

“Shhh!” said Brienne desperately, looking around at the empty field. Their voices were raised enough to shock the birds from the trees or, perhaps, complaint-hungry holidaygoers from their cabins.

Jaime shot her a sideways glance, his face and body taut, a leashed lion waiting to lash out. Brienne stared back, unrelenting. Now she knew about Jaime, about the sort of things he did for his family, for his legacy, the idea of cowering before him stung her pride. Brienne knew men like him, had seen dozens of them dotted through her case studies or appearing in the court trials that her cohort went to witness. Rich men, smug men, men who thought that the money they stole, the funds they embezzled, the people they conned, would provide some sort of solid-gold armour against any form of justice they deserved. It made her skin crawl.

“What the hell is the wench doing here?” he asked Tyrion. Not her, Tyrion.

She answered anyway, her voice soft and firm. “My name is Brienne.”

Tyrion shot her a pleading glance.  “I brought _Brienne_ along in case Tywin comes looking. Thought we could pull on his tie to her father.”

“Is she hurt?” Brienne asked suddenly. If Cersei was ill, then her father would help her, she knew he would.

 After a moment’s silence in which Tyrion desperately tried to meet his brother’s eyes, he turned to her, hesitating a moment before saying, “She’s pregnant, Brienne.”

“For fuck’s _sake_ , Tyrion!” Jaime finally turned to face his brother, his jaw working. Tyrion only stared back at him, unmoved.

Brienne’s head whirred. Pregnant. Cersei Lannister was pregnant. Oh gods, she’d sent an _assaulter_ to comfort a pregnant woman. She stared at Jaime with open horror. He flinched under her gaze, slowing for a moment before shaking his head, shaking off his conscience, and shoving the kitchen doors open.

Brienne pointed wordlessly at the final table on the right – _surely he wouldn’t hurt his own sister_ \- and then Jaime was on his knees, extending a hand towards Cersei.

His entire being seemed to change around her. The hard lines, the taut face, everything softened into a tenderness so sweet Brienne glanced away, not wanting to intrude. When he spoke, the harshness in his voice was gone, replaced by a soft murmur only meant for the person he was speaking to.

“Cersei,” he was saying, his eyebrows pulling together. “God, Cers —”

“Don’t.” Brienne had to admire the way that Cersei’s voice, though small, didn’t waver. “I just needed out. I just wanted out for five _minutes_.” The final word cracked and then Jaime was reaching for his twin, pulling her into his arms and cradling her as she swiped away her tears with an angry hand. Brienne felt her cheeks warm. This sweetness was not meant for her to see.

“We’ll take care of it,” Jaime whispered, over and over again. “We’ll take care of it.”

*

“You mean _I’ll_ take care of it.” They were sat crowded around a lumpy old sofa in the staff common room. Jaime had draped a blanket around Cersei’s shoulders and Tyrion had shoved a mug of brandy in her hand but, her strength returning as she drank, Cersei looked anything but the patient. She wore the blanket like a cape, wielded the chipped mug of brandy like a goblet. “You wouldn’t know where to start.”

The derisive comment seemed to roll right off him. “I’d start by taking care of the charges,” he said stubbornly.

Cersei rolled her eyes. “Father would notice if you took that much out of savings. And your salary —”

“Is mine to do what I want with,” he said fiercely.

“…wouldn’t be enough,” Cersei finished. Brienne watched as the mug began to tremble in her hands. “Nothing we have is enough, Jaime.” She closed her eyes, pressing a hand over them with such force her fingertips turned white. “Gods, it’s hopeless.”

If there was anything that Brienne hated, it was hopeless things. She had never been able to leave a bird with a broken wing in the street, an essay not handed in, a case study not pulled apart until the side she would have defended at least had a shot. Perhaps that was why she spoke without thinking, inching out of her spot in the corner for the first time that night.

“Don’t say that,” she said. “There must be a way, there must be something…”

The look of pure malignity that Cersei turned on her through narrowed eyes swallowed Brienne’s words in a merciless gulp. Cersei shoved the mug at Tyrion and stood, swaggering over towards Brienne with a slight sway to her body.

“Brienne Tarth,” she said, tasting every syllable. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Old family, fishing town. Your father’s little star – I’ve heard him tell mine.” She grinned, high and haughty. “Tell me, is he more disappointed that his heir is a girl or that she looks like a man?”

Brienne schooled her features into neutrality, muscle-memory from the years of handling bullies. If Cersei Lannister could be called a bully, that was – there was a more subtle poison to her, one hidden behind smiles and carefully chosen words. Back in middle school, when Brienne had shot up a foot higher than the other boys, it became clear that using her screams and her knuckles and her hurt to retaliate only made people come after her more, like a pack of hounds after the stench of blood left on her grazed fists. Brienne stared at Cersei, unwavering, and hoped the other woman couldn’t smell her hurt.

“I told her,” Tyrion said, passing a tired hand over his face. “She knows, Cersei.”

If Brienne had thought that Cersei looked at her with dislike, it was nothing compared to her expression when she turned to her brother, her entire body coiled, anger reverberating off her in waves.

“You – how could you?” she hissed. She laughed once, a high, hysterical sound. “You think you’re a clever man. You think you’re so fucking clever. Let’s see how smart you look when she goes running off to her father saying how Tywin Lannister’s daughter was so stupid, so careless, that she went and got herself knocked up by Robert Baratheon. His prize trophy from Yale. We’d be out on the streets like that.” She snapped her fingers harshly.

Brienne blinked, an image of the brawny brunette she’d seen standing at breakfast darting across her eyes, his smile cocky and assured. “Robert Baratheon? Like Joffrey Baratheon’s cousin?”

“That,” said Jaime, rising to his feet with a glare to rival his sister’s, “is none of your business—”

Tyrion let out a growl of frustration and tugged his brother back into his seat, pushing past him to reach Brienne.

“Brienne,” he said, but she didn’t listen. Couldn’t hear him over her own thoughts.

Robert Baratheon had taken Tywin Lannister’s instructions to heart, clearly. Sleep with the women, win them over. Did he know that his daughter would get caught up in the same game? Bile rose in Brienne’s throat as she remembered how Tywin had presented Joffrey to them, a fatherly hand on his shoulder. Had he known that Sansa would be the next one wooed with pretty words and late-night dates until she was sat like his daughter was now, crying into the sticky remnants of her brandy glass?

“Brienne,” Tyrion repeated, more forcefully this time. “Listen to me. Who the father is doesn’t matter. What matters is that we can get Cersei in to see a doctor. There’s this guy, Qyburn. A real doctor. He’s experienced in the abortion process. He’ll be in town in a fortnight, one day only, and he charges enough that even if Lannisters did shit gold, we probably couldn’t afford it. Two hundred dollars.”

Brienne balked at the amount. This doctor was forcing women to pay an astronomical sum for a say in their own futures. Brienne had thought about how such a case could be argued in court – rights to one’s own body, the legal beginnings of life, circumstantial evidence. But in that moment, all that she could think was how wrong was was that they could all be sat there, discussing how to remove something from Cersei’s body, whilst Cersei herself was unable to do anything more than swallow brandy and hope.

“But,” said Brienne, clinging on to her last viable thread of thought, “surely you don’t have to ask your father for the money. If Robert Baratheon’s the father, then he has it already. That family comes from money.” She took a step towards Cersei. “I’m sure,” she said, using her most reasonable voice, “if you spoke to him —”

Cersei shut her eyes and for the first time, under the flickering naked light bulb, Brienne could see the hollowness in her cheeks and neck, the sunken quality of her eyes. She was a beautiful woman, but she was exhausted to her bones.

“He knows,” she said. She knocked back the rest of her brandy with a dismissive wave. “Go back to your beach, Brienne Tarth. Only lions survive in the wild.”

*

“You can’t just – just desert her,” Brienne spluttered, following Robert Baratheon as he unceremoniously dumped dinner rolls onto plates.

She’d managed to pin him down about half an hour earlier and had recited her carefully practiced speech about mutual responsibility, socioeconomic inequality and the broader points of the Sherri Finkbane case until he’d cut her off, mid-word, with a breezy _not gonna happen._

“Look, Brienne, Brie.” Her hands tightened on the water jug he’d shoved at her. “Joff and I have spent hours kissing boots and setting tables and charming girls this summer. Hours. All so Joff could make it through medical school and I could pay off the loan for my car.” He explained everything to her very slowly, enunciating the words with a patient air. “I never promised Cers anything. I’m not going to blow most of summer’s salary for a chick that probably whored herself out to every guy in this place.”

Brienne was shocked that the water jug didn’t shatter with the way she gripped it, her knuckles shifting from red to white. He genuinely didn’t care, she realised, stunned into momentary silence. He didn’t care that Cersei was pregnant. He didn’t care that she had no way out. It wasn’t maliciousness or revenge that drove his cruelty, it was just a lack of concern for anyone that wasn’t himself.

Brienne gripped his arm before he could leave and rose to her full height, which rivalled his easily. His muscle flexed under her hand, so – it was petty, she knew, but she couldn’t help it – she gripped harder, her bitten nails digging into the skin.

“Tell your cousin to stay away from my sister,” she said quietly. “Don’t look at her, don’t think about her – or I’ll tell Tywin Lannister what you did, and I’ll get you fired.”

Perhaps she should have left it there. It would have been sensible, she knew, to leave it there, with the threat ringing in his ears. But when Robert Baratheon smirked, as though what she’d said just rolled off him, as though he thought himself not just above her, but above consequences, her hand moved almost of its own accord and she tipped the jug of water straight down his pants, watching with satisfaction as the beige bloomed dark.

“You bitch,” he snarled at the room burst into started gasps of laughter.

 _Bitch, beast, whore._ Always the same.

“Stay away,” Brienne warned again, before striding out with her head held high.

*

Brienne stood, propped against the golf cart, as Arya sulked. She’d been grounded to the cart for the rest of the game of family golf after deemed the sport ‘a freaking stupid game’ and giving up on hitting the balls into the holes entirely, focusing instead on whacking them as far as she could – into the sand, or the lake, or, in one unfortunate case, into a group of people playing bowls.

Brienne watched as her parents and Sansa lined up patiently to take the shot. Sansa looked tired again, her under-eyes stained purple, and she’d smelled like cologne that morning – the overpowering, spicy stuff that made Brienne’s nose itch and her throat scratch. Brienne had spotted her talking on the porch with Joffrey when she’d returned, her face softening inch by inch. She wanted to warn Sansa again of his true character, but there was no way of adequately explaining without giving away Cersei’s secret.

 _Cersei_. There was the other predicament. Perhaps she should just learn how to leave the birds with broken wings in the street, to leave well enough alone, to shut her eyes rather than walk into things with a wide, trusting gaze. But when she’d gone to bed the night before her thoughts had remained prodding at her long after Sansa snuck in and the tight ball on the top bunk that was Arya had stilled. They’d prodded and pushed and shook until an idea had crystallised itself in her head, stupid and risky and pointless and absolutely, undoubtedly necessary.

She took a breath and walked towards her father, catching him by the arm as Catelyn and Sansa studied the course to the hole. He pulled her close, wrapping an affectionate arm around her shoulders, and Brienne could already feel the nasty stickiness of guilt trapping her throat. She cleared it.

“Dad…”

“Yes, little star?” he said absently, brow furrowed as he watched his wife and stepdaughter. “You’re overcorrecting, Sansa!” She adjusted herself dutifully.

Brienne took a deep breath, steadying herself. “You’ve always said that the purpose of life, that our duty in life, is to help other people. People that can’t help themselves.”

He turned to her, his brow furrowed. “What’s bothering you, Brienne?”

“Someone’s…in trouble,” she said, cringing at how utterly lacking the phrasing was, “and I want to help them. Like you taught me to.” She steeled herself and looked straight at her father, willing herself not to stutter, not to flush. _Step up to the bar, Brienne_. “Can I borrow two hundred dollars?”

Selwyn coughed loudly, as though the very number made him choke. “That’s a lot of money, Brienne. What sort of trouble are we talking about?”

She stayed quiet, not wanting to weave a greater web of lies, but not wanting to tell the truth either.

“It’s not illegal, is it?”

Brienne swallowed, hard. “No, dad.”

Selwyn softened, his grip on her shoulder relaxing with a gentle pat. He trusted her, Brienne knew. Trusted that she was still the little girl he’d hoisted on his shoulders above the waves. That little girl never lied to her father.

“That was a foolish question,” he said. “Forgive me.” She nodded numbly, and he pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’ll have it ready for you tonight.”

*

That night, long after her parents had retired to bed, Brienne walked towards the staff quarters with dawdling steps and hands that couldn’t stop fiddling with the envelope her father had pressed into her hands at dinner. Somehow, with the crumbling building looming before her, its foundations practically shaking with the force of music and movement, what had seemed a good idea now seemed foolish. Astronomically foolish. Stupid, and unwanted, and – _no_. Brienne shook her head, not allowing herself to doubt, and walked in.

The cloying heat hit her again, but she was prepared this time. Rather than cringe away, she walked straight through it, her feet firm even as the ground vibrated with the smooth-as-honey voice that slunk from the record player.

Tyrion saw her first. She knew it in the way he stilled and considered her silently in that very unnerving manner of his. Not meeting his eyes, she scanned the room until she spotted Jaime and Cersei dancing in a far corner. The second she looked, she wished she hadn’t – it clearly wasn’t meant for her eyes or anyone’s, the way they held each other tightly, fiercely, as though they were keeping the other together. Brienne would rather make eye contact with every thrusting pelvis on the dance floor than witness this quiet moment of protective affection that spoke to some deeper bond of blood and trust and trial.

Then the song ended, and Brienne used the temporary lull in the room to quickly push her way through the crowd and tap Cersei on her shoulder.

Cersei didn’t do a double take when she saw Brienne, she was far to poised for it, but her eyes did widen a fraction as she took Brienne in slowly.

“Here you go,” Brienne said before Cersei could speak, shoving the envelope at her. Rather than take it, the blonde just stared at her, eyes narrowed in equal parts confusion and mistrust. Brienne looked to Jaime, who obviously wasn’t going to take it either. His face – it was like he was actually trying to look _down_ at her somehow. Brienne turned back to Cersei with a sigh. “It’s what you said you needed. It’s the money.”

Cersei’s hands snatched for the envelope before the rest of her body seemed to know what she was doing. She stared at it, expressionless save for that little furrow in her forehead. In a silence that even the music couldn’t seem to cut through, she opened her mouth a few times before speaking.

“Robbie?”

“R – Baratheon? No. No.” Brienne bit her lip. “You were right about him being…dishonourable.”

Jaime snorted at her word choice and, to Brienne’s surprise, it was not the rapidly approaching Tyrion that rebuked him, but a quick, hard look from his sister.

Despite her moment of defensiveness, Cersei was all stone when she turned back to Brienne. “Where did you get it, then?”

 _I lied to my dad. It made me sick to my stomach, but I lied._ “You said you needed it.”

Tyrion let out a low whistle of appreciation as Cersei ripped open the envelope and quickly counted the notes inside with the tip of a long red nail.

“Fuck, Brienne,” he said, shaking his head, “I knew it. You’re a knight in shining armour. A hero.”

Jaime spoke for the first time that night, his voice bored and drawling and not at all like Brienne remembered. “Yeah. It takes a real hero to go and ask daddy.”

Brienne’s mouth felt suddenly dry. It was the way he spoke to her – accusatory, like she _wanted_ to be a hero. Like she was using Cersei’s pain as a way of making herself feel good, and not simply because it was the right thing to do. He made it feel dirty, somehow, as though all of her actions were tainted with selfishness.

Cersei turned the envelope over in her hands. Then, with a slow shake of her head, she pushed it back to Brienne. “I can’t take it. Sorry.”

Cersei went to step back into Jaime’s arms, but he caught her, a hand on each shoulder, looking between the two women. Brienne saw a distinctly chagrined glint in his eyes when he looked at her – like it was her fault that Cersei refused her. She really couldn’t win with him.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed to his sister. “Take the money.” Cersei shook her head once, tightly. “Cersei – take it.” Another shake, this time accompanied by a weak shove to Jaime’s chest.

“Don’t be an idiot!” she said through her teeth. “We can’t miss that job. We won’t recover the losses.”

A job? It was a job holding Cersei back? Brienne breathed a sigh of relief. Had it been Cersei’s concerns about state laws or fear for the procedure itself, she wouldn’t have known where to begin untangling those threads. This problem had an answer, clear and simple.

“Can’t someone else just fill in?” she suggested.

“No, Miss Fix-It!” snapped Jaime. “Somebody can’t just fill in. Elia is already covering Cersei’s evening shift that day, and Osha has a full day of classes. People actually work here.”

“Jaime,” said Tyrion sharply as Brienne realised, with a start, that she and Jaime were looming towards each other, mirror images of tensed shoulders and angry jaws. He pulled on Brienne’s elbow and began to explain in an urgent hush. “Qyburn’s only in town that one night – Thursday at nine. They usually do their whole act at this other hotel, The Reach, every other Thursday in the summer season. The manager there is a little shit and if they miss tonight, they lose the rest of this season’s salary and next season’s slot.”

Brienne stared, dumbfounded. “But —”

“Don’t even try it, wench,” growled Jaime. He grabbed a beer from the table and took a quick swig, wincing at the taste. Cersei was staring at him in distaste as he slammed it back on the table and laughed once, a hard, humourless sound. “There’s nothing you can do, okay? Stop trying. We can’t cancel, we can’t get anyone to fill in —" he smirked “— unless you fancy standing up there and giving it a go.”

Brienne’s derisive snort was cut off by Tyrion who, with a quick, pensive look between the two of them, copied his brother in taking a quick gulp of his drink, then said, “It’s not a _bad_ idea, exactly.”

He stared at the questioning faces around him with a shrug. “What? It’s not.” He gestured at Brienne, which personally she felt only served to counteract his point even more as she was stood pressed against a wall like dancing was the plague. “She can move.”

“It’s the dumbest idea you’ve ever had!” Jaime protested. “And they call me the stupid Lannister.”

Then Cersei started in, slowly nodding. “You’re a supportive partner, Jaime. You can teach anybody. We can modify anything she can’t learn.” She sent a sideways look at Tyrion, her face twisting grimly as he offered her a roguish wink. “I hate to admit it, but he’s right.”

“Yes, sister dearest,” said Tyrion. “ _He_ is.”

“No, you’re not!” Brienne couldn’t keep quiet any longer. The idea of being paraded up on a stage in front of who knew how many people, plastered with fake tan and red lipstick like the sort Sansa used to wear to dance rehearsals, made her head spin. People would be watching her. Watching her dance with a man who, however rotten, was beautiful enough to make the eyes on her all the harsher.

_“Fucking hell, look at the two of them together! Next to her, you’re a regular beauty, Hyle…”_

_“Why did she even bother trying?”_

_“You can’t pull off the pink, Tarth, makes you look like even more of a troll.”_

“I can’t even do the merengue!”

Jaime gestured to her triumphantly. “See? She can’t even do the merengue.” He looked at both of his siblings firmly. “She can’t do it. She – can’t – do – it.”

_“You can’t pull off pink, Tarth.”_

_“You can’t behave like this, Brienne, your father needs a lady to run the house.”_

_Female students cannot apply for this course due to the violent undertones of extracurricular activities…_

People liked to tell Brienne that she couldn’t do things. Either because she was the Beast and couldn’t possibly play at being a woman, or because she was her father’s Little Star, and to help make his life easier, she had to try harder to become one. The Beast could fence and play football, but she couldn’t put lipstick on without being laughed at. The Little Star could wear rouge and dresses, but would have her foil snatched out of her hand the moment her fingers closed around the hand guard.

Neither would be caught dead dancing like this, not in front of people. Jaime was right, neither of them could do it. But maybe, maybe, Brienne could.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

And she answered the stunned looks all three sent her with a wide, determined, _toothy_ grin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are hungry eyes, angry sighs, and the tentative beginnings of a truce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a while! I've been adjusting to living back under my family's roof, and it's hard to write under the very confused look my mum gives me when I try to explain to her that I'm writing 'a story based on Dirty Dancing, but it's Game of Thrones'. I can't give you guys exact days to expect updates, but I can promise you (on my honour as an oathkeeper) that I will stick with this fic until the end.
> 
> I had so much fun writing this chapter! It broadly covers a lot of the happenings of the 'Hungry Eyes' montage scene of the film, which is actually my favourite Dirty Dancing scene. What can I say, I love me a training montage.
> 
> I'm also really loving writing Cersei, which is why she's in this chapter a fair bit. She's just so complex, and even getting to experiment with peeling back the layers of her character is a blast.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading. It genuinely does make my heart soar.
> 
> Peace and love, fire and blood x

For once, Margery had not exaggerated when she’d said that Brienne’s athletic training would be indispensable should she ever learn to dance. In fact, Brienne thought, swiping sweat from her brow, Margery could have put a little more emphasis on just how intense dancing was. The few brief twists she’d done in darkened halls had left her unprepared for the sheer amount of core strength needed to dance, let alone to dance _well_. Within an hour of her first class, the loose t-shirt she’d hastily yanked on over her sports bra was drenched with sweat. Her abs protested weakly as Lannister hovered one hand above them and one at the small of her back, correcting her posture.

However unprepared she’d been for training, she’d been even less so for her teacher.

“May I have this dance, my lady?”

She gritted her teeth in response, spotting a flash of his smirk in the mirror as she practised her turns. For all his casual amusement now as he watched her struggle to stay upright, Jaime Lannister was an unforgiving teacher. He expected Brienne to keep up with him, lack of training be damned, and when she didn’t, which was often, it was _again_ or _from the top_. Words of praise were few and far between, and were often wrapped up neatly in little quips that left her questioning whether they had really been compliments at all.

He also spoke _constantly._ Not in the same way as Sansa and Margery did; they were talkative, sure, but at least they had something to say when they opened their mouths. Lannister seemed to lack this specific social filter, saying whatever thought wandered into his head at any given moment, so she had to learn to pick out useful snippets of advice such as:

“Correct your hold.”

From nonsensical little phrases such as:

“Spaghetti arms, wench. You’re getting sloppy.”

And then there was that nickname. _Wench._ It wasn’t as bad as _Beast_ or _Beauty_ , and she knew that he was only saying it because he seemed to be possessed by a gleeful joy when it sent a red-hot flush creeping over her cheeks. It didn’t matter. It crawled under her skin anyway and lodged itself there like an annoying itch.

She distracted herself from the urge to scratch it by chanting mantras in her head to drone him out.   _Heel, toe, heel, toe, keep your spot, don’t over-correct, shoulders back, back…_

She was almost pleased with herself when she finished that run through. Her turns still weren’t as clean as she’d like and the cotton t-shirt was clinging to her quite uncomfortably, but this was the first time she hadn’t stumbled. Something else felt off, though, she thought, frowning at her dishevelled self in the mirror. The music, perhaps… no. _Gods_. It was the silence. She’d gotten so used to Lannister’s incessant ramblings that a reprieve from them felt odd to her.

She glared at him in the mirror. It felt easier than to do so to his face. In the mirror Lannister could be held at a distance, put in his place. A Lannister that was just light mimicking hard lines and angles was easier to handle than one of flesh and bone. “Good job, wench.”

 _Wench._ Brienne couldn’t help it. She itched. “What? For a woman?”

He laughed at that and strode towards her, lifting her arms and positioning them in the opening hold. She had a tendency to hunch at the start and he seemed to have noticed, for he took her shoulders and pushed them back, urging her to stand at her full height. “No. For someone with two left feet.”

It wasn’t the cruellest thing he could say to her, not by far, but it had Brienne grinding her teeth anyway. How was it that they’d been dancing for so long and he’d only just started to break out in sweat, beads of it collecting along his hairline and in the drop of his collarbone? It was just unfair. Bad enough for someone to be cocky without reason to support it. Brienne ignored the rumble of his chuckle against her as she huffed her way into his hold, staring over his shoulder to look at her own reflection in commiseration.

They went through the opening eight counts again. Brienne tried to focus on little things – the cracks in the paint on the wall behind Lannister’s head, the grains of wood on the floor – anything but his careful eyes on her form. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of throwing her off. They went slower than she would have liked, and she could feel the steady pressure of his palm on her back, urging her to keep up as she lagged, but her feet landed in all of the right places, and she fought her urge to slouch.

Lannister’s momentary silence when they finished felt almost like praise, until he took hold of her wrists and gave them a gentle shake.

“Better placement,” he said, nudging her feet back into place with his toe, “but these arms…” He gave them another soft shake, fingers at her pulse, “…these are still spaghetti arms.”

Brienne balked. _Spaghetti arms?_   She’d only missed one arm day in the gym the previous semester, and she was lifting more than she ever had. She had naturally wide shoulders and had spent hours training to gain the biceps to match. Her arms could guide a foil through the air with pinpoint precision, could pump and drive her across a football field even as her lungs burst and lactic acid weighted her muscles like lead. Brienne was _strong,_ and she was proud of it. It had taken a while for her to get to that point.

“I do _not_!”  

The momentary surprise on his face at her shrill retort was quickly schooled into nonchalance. “I’m afraid that’s my official diagnosis, wench. You have no tension in your arms when you dance. You need them like this.” He placed a hand under each elbow and raised them, giving them a quick squeeze to lock them in place. Raising an eyebrow in challenge, he pushed against her forearms gently. Brienne resisted, tensing. _Spaghetti arms, my ass._ He pushed harder, and she opposed. _When a force meets an equal and opposing force,_ Brienne thought, smiling with satisfaction. Then, to her surprise, Lannister did, too.

“Good,” he said. He indicated the space in the air that her arms had carved out. “This is your dance space, and this —” he settled easily into a hold of his own “– is my dance space. I don’t go into yours, and you don’t go into mine. Okay?”

“That won’t be a problem, no.” She still couldn’t seem to look at his face, but his smile seemed to burn through the mirror, refracting straight at her.

Brienne held up her arms, ready, but when Lannister didn’t step into them, she had no choice but to finally meet his eyes head on. He was still smiling, lightly, as though he’d forgotten he was doing it, but his head was angled back slightly. He was taking her in, considering. Brienne dropped her arms, fiddling with the sweaty collar of her t-shirt. She needed _air._

“What?” she snapped, even warmer under his weighted gaze.

“I’m being a bit of an ass, aren’t I?” he said. His mouth was twisted sardonically, but there was no edge to his voice. If anything, Brienne thought, stunned as she took in his posture – hands shoved into pockets, hair cocked to the side like a confused pup – he looked as close to sheepish as she’d ever seen him.

“A bit,” she conceded. Rather generously, she thought.

Her hesitation must have given it away, because he laughed. A real laugh. A laugh that was maybe, maybe, as much at himself as at her.

“Alright, wench,” he said. “I’ll call you out on your spaghetti arms if you call me out on my assholery. Deal?”

“My name is Brienne,” she said automatically.

“And mine is Jaime.” He raised his arms into position and looked at her, a question in his eyes. “You could learn to use it.”

Brienne stepped towards him, relaxing fraction by fraction into his hold. When she answered him, she could feel tension that she hadn’t noticed before ebb from his frame. “Okay. Jaime.”

He nodded, once. “Let’s go again.”

She nodded, too. This seemed very civil, all the nodding. “Again.” 

*

 _Again_ became a word Brienne heard a lot that week. Every time she completed a series of turns across the dance studio, whether her lines were clean and straight or sloppy. _Again._ Every time her hips stuttered and jerked rather than moving in the fluid figure of eight Jaime attempted to guide with his hands. _Again_ , ignoring if Jaime dared to point out the flush on her cheeks.

Dancing was bizarrely personal, she discovered. It wasn’t just putting your body under a spotlight, it was putting it in the hands of someone else. Every time she stepped into his embrace, she let her body be held by Jaime Lannister, by the Kingslayer. She let him do it until the curve of her hip and the small of her back adjusted to the warm pressure of his hands, the long lines of his fingers. Until dancing with him didn’t feel like going up against an opposing force, but like creating one force between them. A push and pull, an attack and a yield. Jaime seemed to note that words like _yield_ and _attack_ triggered some muscle memory deep in Brienne, so he’d breathe them against her ear as they moved. They shared triumphant smiles when it worked and she got through eight counts without mistakes, then sixteen. The familiarity felt new and strange and dangerous, yet she did it, over and over – _again._

 _Again,_ she’d mutter to herself on the porch that wrapped around their cabin, long after the bedroom lights dimmed and the resort began to sleep. She’d raise her arms, set them in place, and practice the steps until they flowed together, a fluid motion rather than a thousand tiny puzzle pieces jangling loose in her mind. She’d shut her eyes and just _move_ , letting her body be, chasing that same feeling she’d felt that first night in the staff house. The feeling of oneness, within herself, with her partner.

Sometimes she’d see Sansa sneak outside, her cloud of perfume alerting Brienne to her presence before any she’d even made a sound. _Again._

Sometimes she’d think about what the assholes from college would say if they saw her now, Brienne the Beauty, dancing in public for the first time since that damned Christmas party. _Again._

 _Again_ became her new mantra, her counter-curse against _can’t._

Jaime caught her at it, once. She’d been practising on the steps to her cabin as he walked across the green, his stride agitated before he saw her. It wasn’t that Brienne wanted to please him, exactly – she was determined not to care what he thought – but she still felt a flash of pride when he abruptly stilled and watched her.

When she finished, she waited, chest heaving, for him to say something. Even as she became more adept to calling out his ‘assholery’, as he’d put it, he still wasn’t above teasing comments and the occasional _wench_ to annoy her into action.

Instead, he just waved a hand hesitantly in greeting, his face oddly open. He’d already turned and left when she raised her hand in return, too late.

*

Sometimes Cersei would join them, the click of her ballroom heels announcing her presence, to call out her own criticism. Somehow, she was kinder and harsher than Jaime in equal measures. She never aimed to tease or provoke as her brother did, yet her criticisms lacked all the lightness of Jaime’s. Brienne’s faults seemed more pronounced under her eyes, and she made no effort to hide her own displeasure.

It didn’t help that Jaime was more pensive during the sessions with Cersei, pent up, almost. She could feel the tension in his shoulders beneath her hands as they danced, Cersei’s own cool fingers on Brienne’s back to help her keep her posture. Brienne almost laughed at herself – since when had she noticed his body? But she couldn’t help it. Caught between the silent conversation of the two twins, Brienne was somehow looped into their frequency.

“She might be ready on time,” Cersei said doubtfully as Brienne chugged down water. They spoke like she couldn’t hear them, though Brienne knew from Jaime’s close-lipped glance at her that her presence was not forgotten.

“She’s a fast learner,” Jaime said. It was the closest thing to a compliment he’d ever offered, and it wasn’t even directed at her.

“I’m not worried about her memorising the steps,” hissed Cersei. “I’m worried about her delivering them. She looks so awkward up there. You’d think we’re holding her at gunpoint.”

“Not a bad teaching technique, that.”

“Jaime.”

“Gives an incentive.”

“ _Jaime_. Be serious.”

“You’ll be ready.” It took Brienne a moment to realise he was talking to her. Her ankle twisted awkwardly as she tried to complete the turn in the pair of strappy heels Cersei had snuck from the lost-and-found. Cersei sighed loudly, but Jaime just caught her arm as she righted herself. “You’ll be ready, Brienne.”

Brienne looked at Cersei for affirmation of this sudden show of confidence, but the other blonde just shrugged, her lips pursed as Jaime refused to meet her shrewd gaze.

“Whatever,” she said finally, sweeping her hair up into a bun before taking her position behind Brienne again. “You still need more swing in your hips.”

“Again,” Jaime said quietly. Brienne took a deep, full breath, shook off her ankle, and danced.

*

Cersei’s words of concern wriggled their way under Brienne’s skin and became her own. She was right – Brienne was awkward. Watching herself in the mirror during classes, it became glaringly obvious. Every time she gyrated, she looked at her hips in shock as though surprised to see that they existed. Every time Jaime’s head bent towards hers, her face jerked back, flaming. It was false intimacy, Brienne wasn’t stupid enough to think otherwise, but she was starved enough of the real thing that even Jaime’s pretending had her reeling. It couldn’t go on like that, not if she wanted to be ready. She had to be ready. Another option didn’t exist - she had promised Cersei. She had promised herself.  

She showed up to that day’s training early and stood in front of the mirror, levelling her chin to meet her own gaze. She looked absurdly frightened, chewing on her full lips as her shoulders curled inwards, an instinctual attempt to make herself smaller. With a deep breath and a small, shaky laugh at herself, Brienne reached down and pulled the baggy t-shirt off over her head, leaving her in a grey sports bra. She ignored the urge to fold her arms tightly across the bare, freckled skin of her chest and shoulders. She ignored the urge to look away. Ghostly voices of her peers began to raise, pointing out her small breasts, her straight-down torso.

 _“How’d you do it, Hyle? I couldn’t even_ _pretend to want the beast.”_

_“Careful not to tackle her during the game, boys. We don’t need her face being made uglier with a broken nose.”_

_“You’d think with shoulders like that you’d at least have the tits to match.”_

Brienne felt the familiar surge of anger bubble up through her throat, but rather than close her eyes against it, she let it burn. Those were stupid comments made by stupid boys. They were not worth her tears, her time, her memory.

“Fuck you,” she hissed. “Fuck you all.”

“Good morning to you, too, wench,” said Jaime brightly, striding in. “Why are you…”

He stilled for a half-beat at the sight of her in the mirror. Brienne braced herself for whatever he was going to throw at her. What was worse – mocking or pity? Neither one would be good, not from him. She resisted the foolish urge to don the t-shirt again. _That would only be a step backwards._ She turned to look at him instead, the real Jaime, not the refraction of light, ignoring the lump that formed in her throat. _I do not fear his judgement. I will not._

“Grey is a good colour on you,” he said eventually, resuming tying his shoelaces as though not a second had passed. “Makes your eyes look very…blue.”

“Very blue?” she repeated, trying to find the joke in the words.

“Yeah.” When she continued to look at him like he’d grown a fourth head, he sighed impatiently. This Jaime she recognised. “It was a compliment, wench.”

“Thank you,” she said, in the same tone as she’d said _fuck you._ He had to ruin it with that infernal nickname.

He smiled sunnily in response, the colour high in his cheeks. “Fuck you very much, too.”

*

It was a good idea, losing the t-shirt. Not only did she feel cooler, but she was less constrained by the fabric. She could actually see the shapes that her muscles created as she spun and lunged, see which lines she had to lengthen. It was strange at first, with Jaime, feeling his hands on her sweat-slicked skin without the flimsy cotton barrier between them. She’d never been touched there by anyone and her skin noticed, making her hyperaware every time his fingers brushed a rib. But it helped, too. Cersei had said she looked awkward dancing, but bit by bit she got used to the pressure of his hands against her bare skin, and the comfort in what she was used to showed. Jaime didn’t have to tell her to keep her head up or her shoulders back anymore. She stood tall without prompting.

So the bare skin wasn’t an issue at all, not at all, until Jaime took her through the few steps he’d added at the start of the routine. She would stand against him, her back flush against his chest, as he raised her arm over his shoulder, trailing his fingers gently down her bicep to her abdomen, where her other hand would wait for him to spin her outwards into their first count of eight.

It should have been the easiest part of the routine. It was the only part in which her feet could stay perfectly still.  But the moment Jaime’s fingers brushed her ribs, a startled laugh tore its way free from her, shocking them both. Brienne clamped both of her hands over her mouth as though she could push the sound back in. Jaime stared at het, his brows knitting together. Honestly, all of his annoying little jokes and barbs, and the one time he gets an actual laugh out of her, he looked at her like _that_.

“Are you okay?” he said. “Do you need a break or something? Water?”

The concern on his face had her giggling again. Not laughing – giggling. Like a giddy little kid. The dent between Jaime’s brows deepened.

 “I’m fine,” she said defensively, turning away from him and back into their starting position. “I’m just ticklish.”

“Ticklish?” She didn’t have to look at his face to see his surprise.

“Yes,” she said shortly. “Now, can we go again?”

Once more, she aligned her body against his, his nose skimming the juncture where her shoulder met her neck. She raised her hand behind her to cradle his head, and his fingers began to trail impossibly softly, as light as spider silk, down the flesh of her inner bicep and –

“Sorry!” Brienne wheezed around her laughter, desperately holding her breath against the onslaught. “I’m so sorry!”

“Are we going to get through this session, wench, or do you need to take some rest leave?” It was amusement, not mirth, that shone on Jaime’s face as she sheepishly met his gaze in the mirror. His eyes were bright, his mouth swallowing his usual smirk with a smile. He looked positively delighted to see her unravelled, to see her anything less than composed. The schoolboyish joy of the expression made Brienne laugh again, a loud, clear sound. The smile grew.

“I didn’t know you were ticklish,” he said. “You never normally laugh.”

“Just there,” said Brienne as the laughter subsided. “And —” No, nope. It was a bad idea to share that information. When she’d mentioned it to her roommates, both Yara and Margery got way too competitive about surprising her with it. Yara had once hidden inside of Brienne’s wardrobe for three hours, crouching under Brienne’s winter coat. Three hours, just to jump out on her and launch what she described as a _tickle offensive_ , Brienne’s shouts of shock alternating with screams of laughter.

Jaime leapt on it like a bird of prey. “And?” He eyed the ticklish spot of her ribs thoughtfully, but Brienne just wrapped her arms around herself like a hug and shook her head firmly, hoping the dull flush of her cheeks could be disregarded as the strain of exercise. No way she was telling him that. He’d never let her live it down. Would probably wiggle his fingers across the expanse of skin on stage just to watch in amusement as she brayed in front of the whole audience.

Jaime shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll find it eventually. When we do the lifts.”

“The lifts?” Brienne demanded. Up until then, they’d paused at the junctures of the dance where a lift was required. She assumed they’d be phased out or replaced with something else. “We’re not – I mean, we haven’t practiced – I mean, we can’t!”

“You afraid of heights, wench? Surely that’s impossible – you’re already over six feet yourself.” When Brienne didn’t answer, instead casting her eyes at her callused feet, the buoyant energy she’d felt radiating off of him dimmed. He knew. He had to have guessed. She looked up at him, steeling herself for the ugly show of sympathy, and was surprised when only mild irritation registered there instead. “What, do you think I can’t lift you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Do you think I can’t lift you?” When she didn’t answer again, he groaned and gently pulled her back into the starting position. “We’ll talk about this later. For now, all I want you to worry about is getting through these opening counts.”

Brienne felt his fingers trail down her arm, soft as a feather. Perhaps the thoughts of the lifts sobered her, for she didn’t laugh when his index finger brushed her abdomen, nor when he grabbed her hand for the opening turn, nor when, crowing in delight, he stopped her before the dance could continue, his eyes shining with celebration. 

“Good job,” he said, clapping his hands on her shoulders. His breath smelt of peppermint. Brienne couldn’t breathe. Maybe the t-shirt hadn’t been the problem. Maybe it was just this fucking room that made her need air.

“Break?” she whispered.

He nodded and pulled away from her, pulling his warmth with him. “Take five.”

*

“When I prick you, tell me,” said Cersei. Brienne did not miss the _when_ in the place of _if._ Not that she thought that Cersei would stab her with a pin deliberately. Probably not. In fairness to her, it was a difficult position, with Brienne stood on the floor and Cersei teetering on one of the girl’s locker room benches, attempting to finish the final few adjustments to the sequined dress she’d dug out of the supply closet.

“Will do,” Brienne muttered. She probably wouldn’t even notice – she couldn’t take her eyes off of her own body long enough to see where Cersei was prodding pins. The dress was a bit shorter than she’d like and the cobalt satin was tight across her hips, but the halter neckline showed off the strong curve of her shoulders as they flowed into her throat. The deep v-neckline actually made the freckled expanse of her chest look elegant and, though she still lacked the ample breasts to truly fill it out, at least she didn’t have to add an unfortunate boob slip on to her rapidly growing list of worries.

“Jaime says you’re doing well,” said Cersei, her tongue curling around the pin she held in her mouth. There was a vaguely accusatory note to her voice, as though Brienne had asked Jaime to lie for her.

“He’s just being nice.”

“My brother isn’t nice.”

“No. No, he’s not.” Brienne worried her lip for a moment. “I mean, I don’t think I’m doing badly. I know all of the steps. I have the counts down, now.” In their last session, Jaime had held her hand over his heart and used it as a metre, tapping his long fingers against the tendons on the back of her hand for every step he wanted her to take. It had worked, though it hadn’t been until the gasping breath Brienne took at the end of the run-through that she’d realised that her own heart had apparently been completely still the whole time. “I just need to remember to keep my head up instead of looking at my feet. Head up, shoulders back.”

Cersei nodded once, a tight, approving nod. “Good.”

They stood in silence for a few more moments. Cersei only caught Brienne once and barely enough to draw blood, but she quickly placed a cloth to the wound anyway, her fingers firm. The wordless kindness surprised Brienne. It wasn’t that she thought that Cersei didn’t like her, exactly. It was that she’d never seen any evidence to see that Cersei liked anyone, apart from occasionally Jaime and, sometimes, Cersei herself.

“Thank you,” said Brienne.

“Don’t thank me.” Cersei was looking at Brienne as though she feared her judgement, but Brienne had seen less defensive stances on fencers as they took to the piste. It was a bizarre mixture of vulnerability and guardedness, of apprehension and careful disinterest.

“Listen, Brienne,” said Cersei, dropping the pin she held to the floor. “I don’t know why I care about this, but I do, so I’m just going to say it. I loved Robert. Some stupid, naïve part of me that I thought had fucked off long ago still does. And I thought he loved me. It didn’t matter how often he told me he only wanted to fuck in secret, or that when we were actually fucking, he’d finish breathing his ex-girlfriend’s name instead of mine—”

“What?” Brienne’s nose wrinkled, and Cersei laughed.

“I know. It was messed up. But love is messed up. Or, I thought it was. I thought it had to be.” Cersei searched Brienne’s face like she was looking for something, but Brienne didn’t know what to give. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Brienne shook her head and Cersei sighed, stooping to collect the pins she had dropped.

“I’m saying,” she continued, busying herself with pushing the final pins into place, “that I know that I act like I don’t give a shit, but I do. What Robert did hurt. A lot. So I am grateful for what you’re doing for me. Not just the money, either. Everything. I don’t know why you’re doing it, and I don’t know what you hope to gain from it, but I’m grateful anyway. I’ve just been too proud to say it.” A smile ghosted her lips. “Tyrion says my pride is all that’ll be left at the end of it. Cockroaches and my pride. It’s all I have now.”

“Pride isn’t all you have,” Brienne said. “You still have your – your brothers. You’re still an incredible dancer.”

Cersei hummed, in affirmation or dissent, Brienne wasn’t sure. “Tell me something, Brienne. What do you study?”

“Politics,” she said automatically, “with a focus on underdeveloped economies and women’s education.”

Cersei looked hungry as Brienne rattled off thoughts about her course and all the reading she had to do, wistfulness and jealousy playing an ugly game across her face.

“Are you afraid?” Brienne asked her softly. She didn’t know why. It seemed like a stupid thing to ask. But she wondered if anyone had ever asked Cersei. If they’d ever given her permission to be anything other than a lioness.

Cersei shook her mane scornfully. “Lions don’t feel fear.”

Brienne considered her. “Cockroaches and your pride,” she echoed. Cersei laughed.

*

Brienne didn’t believe in signs. Margery had gone through a phase in first semester in which she’d tried to learn to read tarot but, as she had with tightrope walking and fire-eating, shrugged off the new hobby when the initial mysticism seemed to wear down. Margery was easily taken in by stuff like that – even Arya had eyed the school fair’s psychic, Melisandre, with a large dose of suspicion – but Brienne couldn’t care less.

Perhaps, after today, she would.

The first sign was when Cersei and Brienne walked out of the fitting and saw Arya, who had been playing soccer on the field opposite, run straight into poor Petyr Baelish, a widowed man who spent most of his time at bingo. Arya sent all of his possessions, which included a lighter, four wallets, and a wad of (presumably freshly won) cash, flying into the dirt. Brienne spent five minutes wheedling a sulky apology out of Arya, with Cersei smirking besides her the whole time.

The second sign was when Tyrion, his mouth twisted grimly, said that Qyburn had upped his fees for Thursday. He, Jaime and Cersei had no choice but to invest their already meagre savings in the procedure. Brienne’s offers for more loans from her father were brushed off with brittle shakes of the head.

“Your father will catch on if we borrow more,” said Tyrion, pinching the bridge of nose hard enough to leave a mark, “and then Tywin will be on to all of us.”

Cersei had said nothing; she just stood pale and resolute and beautiful. _Cockroaches and her pride_ , Brienne thought.

The third sign was the brutal rainstorm that ripped through the resort that Monday, hammering down on the roof of the old barn she and Jaime were practicing in with such force it distracted her from her counts.

Even to a non-believer like Brienne, the signs were clear. The universe just did not want her to succeed at dancing.

Jaime did, though.

“Are you trying to kill me, wench?” he snapped, not for the first time that session. He rubbed the small of his back with a wince as Brienne awkwardly disengaged herself from their twin lunges. He gripped hold of her arm to right himself, and she resisted the childish urge to throw him off.

“No.”

Jaime stared at her, jaw working, and Brienne matched him, mirror images of simmering irritation, neither sure who would blow first. She wasn’t sure exactly what his problem was today, but there seemed to be a restless energy crackling beneath the surface of his skin, driving him to pace about the room, constantly on the move.

“She’s my sister,” he burst out. “She’s my sister, and I can’t protect her from it, and the gods know that she wouldn’t want me to protect her from it, but it’s killing me that there’s nothing I can do. Nothing except this one thing. I need to succeed for her. I don’t know why you’re wasting your rich people holiday doing this; I don’t know if it’s your idea of fun —”

Brienne’s simmer hiked up to boiling. She wasn’t sure if it was the rain or the rage or just the proximity to him, but the words came rushing out of her, shaking with anger. “Yes, of course,” she snapped. “Being snapped at by a grown man having an oversized toddler tantrum whilst I try and learn the choreography to a professional mambo in a matter of days is exactly my idea of fun. I’m not sure of the turns, we still haven’t even practiced the lifts, and I’m doing all of this to save your ungrateful ass, when all I really want to do is lift _you_ up and drop you on it.” She paused to take a sharp breath, the air burning the back of her throat. Jaime was looking at her wordlessly, jaw tight. “You asked me to call you out on your shit, Kingslayer. Well, here it is. I’m calling it.”

She hadn’t meant to say it. Well, she had, but not _that_. Not to his face, and certainly not with the same venom-coated tone Joffrey had adopted as he’d spat the name out at her. _Kingslayer._

The effect on Jaime was instantaneous. He flinched as though she’d slapped him, but the cowed gesture did nothing to soften his expression. The moment he heard the name, his head reared back, nostrils flared. He looked every part the lion of his sigil, proud and wronged and with a rage in his eyes that even the red glitter of rubies couldn’t match. Then, just as quickly, all of the tension faded out of him and his shoulders dropped, his face falling into his hands as he rubbed them roughly over the shadow of a beard beginning to cover his jaw. The anger was still there, but it was tampered. It was defeated.

“Don’t call me that,” he said quietly, his voice rough as sandpaper. “Not you.”

“Do you deny it?”

He looked at her, long and steady. “No.” A pause. “Are you going to quit?”

“I don’t break my promises.”

“Neither do I. Not lightly.”

They let that sit between them for a moment, the silence punctuated only by the harsh slap of the rain against the roof. Even in this dull, rain-washed light, Jaime looked golden. In his cold silence, he was like a statue. Marble-still and untouchable. Brienne didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know whether to apologise or storm out or yell or hold him to her and press her forehead to his widow’s peak, just above where worry lines were cut across his brow. The conflicting emotions were so confusing, so _much,_ that they choked her before she could even think of what to say to him.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he said suddenly, that restless energy back. He grabbed his leather jacket from the floor and shoved his arms into it.

Brienne’s eyes flickered to the sheets of rain cutting through the landscape outside. “And go where?”

“I don’t know.” Jaime dragged his hands through his hair. “I’m pissed off, you’re pissed off, and this resort is fucking suffocating. We can’t dance like this. Let’s find somewhere to breathe.”

Brienne hesitated. The sensible thing to do would be to go back to her cabin. To forget the dancing and Jaime Lannister and Aerys Targaryen, and curl up in a ball until the storm passed. But when she looked at Jaime, staring at her with a quiet, shamed plea in his eyes and a hand extended towards her in a silent peace offering, she felt something deep in her stomach _pull._ She still wasn’t sure if she liked Jaime, or if there was truth in the bizarre combination of quips and digs and words of encouragement that seemed to spill from him, but she wanted there to be.

_Sansa’s going to lose her mind. Margery’s going to spontaneously combust._

“Okay,” said Brienne, pulling her t-shirt back over her head. “Let’s get out of here.”


End file.
